


Undisclosed Desires

by Kittenshift17



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Smut, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12896880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenshift17/pseuds/Kittenshift17
Summary: Antonin Dolohov had never loathed anyone so much in all his life. He'd certainly never wanted someone this much. He'd done terrible things, but kidnapping and blackmailing his favourite mudblood into shagging him was low, even for him. Too bad he can think of no other way to share his undisclosed desires.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> PREFACE: The characterisation of Antonin Dolohov as a Russian wizard who developed an infatuation with Hermione after attacking her at the Ministry, in addition to the many Russian endearments coined by him throughout this story are the intellectual property of Canimal, author of "The Dark Mage's Captive". I characterise him this way with the full knowledge and permission of Canimal.
> 
> ANTI-LITIGATION CHARM: Any canon material belonging to the Harry Potter world belongs to J.K. Rowling. I make no profit for this work, beyond that of reviews.
> 
> A/N: Ooops! Another One Shot. October is proving to be a dangerous month for me with all these prompts in DEE. I'm falling for my own prompts here, people. Teehee. I hope you like this one.
> 
> xx-Kitten

 

The faint light glowing from the windows of a tiny cabin in the woods drew her like a moth to flame. The young woman dashed in wedge heels she loathed toward the sight, hurrying and fighting the urge to scream with every step. The woods were dark and the trees hugged close, their branches reaching for her like gnarled hands, tearing at her costume and trying to snatch her candy bucket from her grip.

Skidding across the front yard thanks to the rain-slick grass, Hermione Granger didn't even bother to knock on the door as she converged on the tiny house. That it might belong to someone awful never occurred to her. She was too scared. Racing across the porch and almost twisting her ankle, she burst through the door and slammed it closed behind her.

"There's a  _bear_  out there!" she gasped, mostly to herself, but hoping that whomever she'd barged in on would understand her lack of manners, given the circumstances.

She frowned, breathing hard and leaning against the door, when she looked around the small single-roomed cabin and found that she was alone. Trying to calm her racing heart, Hermione felt logic surface from the depths of her fear and her frown deepened.

"A bear?" she asked herself, pushing away from the door and heading toward the fireplace that crackled merrily, hoping to warm her chilled frame and dry her damp clothes. "I'm in Britain. We don't have bears, anymore! Merlin, Hermione, could you have been any thicker?"

She was in the process of wringing out her hair when a thud on the porch caught her attention and Hermione fished in her pocket for her wand and cried out in alarm to find that she'd obviously dropped it whilst tearing through the words. Out of time, and without a weapon, Hermione spun toward the sound and narrowed her eyes.

"Not a bear," she muttered to herself. "An Animagus."

The door creaked open slowly and Hermione held her breath, poised and ready to defend herself should the animgus – the owner of the cabin, she suspected – take issue with her invasion. Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating the woods on that cold, Halloween night, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Her heart, having begun to slow, kicked back into high gear as fear coiled in her limbs and poisoned her sense.

Worse than a bear.

_So_  much worse than a bear.

"Dolohov?" Hermione breathed, her body shaking in terror as she trailed her gaze over the dark haired Russian wizard.

Flicking damp brown hair out of his eyes, the elusive Death Eater stepped across the threshold, the light of the fire illuminating the droplets of water than ran down his bare chest. He raked mysterious, and wickedly amused dark eyes over her and Hermione had never felt more vulnerable. Not even when she'd been writhing on the floor of Malfoy Manor, or when she'd been struck by Dolohov's purple-fire curse in the Department of Mysteries had she felt so utterly at anyone's mercy.

"Aren't you a little old to be Trick or Treating,  _mishka_?" he asked, his Russian accent thick and rolling off his tongue in such a way that Hermione shivered.

Glancing down at herself, Hermione frowned. This was all Ginny's fault. She'd insisted that Hermione's thick brown hair made her think of bear fur and so here she was, dressed in a cute bear costume equipped with claws, tufted little ears, and face paint. To him, she probably looked ridiculous and Hermione darted a glance past him toward the open door and the woods beyond even as the storm raged outside.

She had to get out. As soon as he figured out who was hiding behind the face paint, he was going to torture her, or finish what he'd started in the Department of Mysteries. The purple starburst scar upon her chest from his curse throbbed dully as she stared at him.

"Please, let me go," Hermione said quietly after licking her lips.

"You just got here," he smirked, very deliberately closing the door and cutting off her escape.

Hermione darted a glance toward the fireplace at her back, hoping she might spot a pot of Floo Powder somewhere so that she could make a break for it that way. She whimpered when he summoned the pot of powder with a lazy flick of his wand before she could spy it, nestled behind a picture frame on the mantle.

"Dolohov," she began weakly, taking a hesitant step back when he took a long, measured step forward.

"Granger," he sneered, mocking her, a wicked smirk curling his lips. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Just let me go," she commanded. "I won't tell anyone you live here, or that you're even still alive."

He laughed, a low, cold sound that made her tremble even more. Her knees knocked inside the loose-fitting bear-onsie she'd donned for the sake of her costume and making Harry laugh on his least favourite night of the year.

"And have you slip away when I've looked forward to our reunion?" he asked, taunting her.

"You…" Hermione frowned at him.

"You might've escaped me twice now,  _mishka_ ," he went one. "But you know what they say. The first one was too hard. The second was too soft. But the third time will be  _just_ right."

Hermione closed her eyes in horror when she realized he'd turned her costume into a Goldilocks parody. He wasn't going to let her go. She couldn't apparate without her wand. She knew she'd never make it past him to bolt out the door, not when he still had his wand  _and_  he was an Animagus. And he'd cut off escape through the Floo. She was doomed. She would die in a silly bear costume in a cabin in the woods on Halloween and Harry's hatred of the holiday would grow even more abiding.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked fearfully, opening her eyes and cursing silently to find Dolohov had closed the distance between them amid her horrified distraction.

He loomed over her, his sharp cheekbones casting shadows on his face thanks to the firelight at her back. His eyes were fixed on her and they glittered with a number of emotions that terrified her. Hatred. Lust. Disgust. Intrigue. Amusement. Wickedness. He would take his time destroying her, she could tell. He would revel in it. He wasn't the type to offer her a quick end to whatever pain and humiliation he'd cooked up for her.

"I've been planning our reunion a long time, Mudblood," he murmured to her, bringing one large, calloused hand up to stroke the delicate column of her throat in a way that felt more threatening than affectionate.

"You knew I would end up lost in the woods?" she asked.

His lips twitched. "Did you imagine your arrival here was happenstance?" he asked, laughing softly.

"The whiskey bottle was a portkey?" she guessed, recalling that the last thing she'd done before finding herself in the woods and running for her life was reaching for the bottle of firewhiskey on her mantel. She'd wanted a bracer before heading to meet Ginny, Harry and Ron, needing something to calm her nerves at the thought of seeing Ron again after their recent and messy break-up.

Dolohov's grin was evil and Hermione felt sick to think he'd been in her flat. He knew where she lived. He'd invaded her home enough to transfigure a bottle into a portkey, and he knew her habits well enough to know she'd reach for a drink before heading out on Halloween.

"Where are we?" she asked quietly, desperately trying to think of ways to keep him distracted, trembling when she felt the way he traced the pads of his thumbs along her collarbones, his hands coming to rest lightly around her throat. The way he collared the slender column, and the way his fingers twitched, Hermione knew he was imagining slowly choking the life out of her.

"You think I will tell you?" he asked curiously. "I am not so foolish as to imagine that you might never escape me,  _mishka_. You have before."

"Why did you wait?" Hermione tried again. "If you were able to plant a Portkey in my house, you could have grabbed me any time."

He slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and smoothed his thumbs up either side of her windpipe, forcing her to tilt her head up, making her meet his gaze.

"No one will think to look for you tonight until it is much too late," he said, lowering his head over hers in such a way that her vision was full of his eyes. His lips brushed against her when he spoke. "They will think you were too cowardly to face your ex-boyfriend and that you went out alone, if they look for you at your flat, or simply that you aren't coming. No one will think to look for you until morning, or perhaps even the day after tomorrow."

"And you plan to kill me before then," she said, the words almost catching in her throat.

"Kill you?" he frowned a little, his eyes boring into her. "Oh,  _mishka_ , I'm not going to  _kill_  you."

Hermione gulped, knowing from his tone alone that not dying was going to prove so much worse.

"What  _are_  you going to do?" she asked, her hands lifting to circle his wrists, her subconscious screaming at her to at least  _try_  to defend herself.

Dolohov hummed softly, as if in approval.

"You are a fighter, no?" he murmured, purposely brushing his lower lip against hers.

"I am," Hermione agreed.

He chuckled softly, his breath fanning over her damp face and Hermione's knees almost gave out, her fear was so consuming. His nails scraped lightly against her scalp as he forced her to hold his gaze, her head tilted up, his mouth slanted over hers, so close it brushed hers when he spoke. She hated the way, despite her terror, the proximity of any man's lips so close to hers after so long made them tingle.

"Tell me something,  _lisichka_ ," he said softly, almost tenderly. "What might it take to convince you  _not_  to fight? Just this once?"

Hermione frowned. She didn't have to be the brightest witch of her age to know what he was asking her. The hot, hard lump inside his damp jeans and pressing insistently against her stomach gave her a pretty big clue. Emphasis on big.

Why would he attempt to bargain with her to passively let him shag her when he could simply force her, as surely as he intended to torture her.

"You want me to…" she frowned.

"Without a fight," he nodded. "Name your price,  _pchelka_."

Hermione gulped. She wanted to scream that she'd never willingly let him have her. She wanted to kick and snarl and spit hexes and venom at him. She wanted to drive him back and make him leave her alone.

But she wanted to live, too.

"I'll do it if you'll let me go free, afterward," Hermione bargained, doubting he would go for it. " _Without_  hurting me. If you let me leave, I'll…." Her lip trembled. "I'll let you…"

"Say it,  _lisichka_ ," he commanded. "We are negotiating terms. If you are not explicit, you might not like what you bargain for."

Hermione gulped, feeling very much like she was making a deal with the devil.

"If you allow me to leave here afterward, unharmed and unhindered, and without following me or trying to stop me, I will agree to having sex with you without trying to fight you off and without crying or calling for help."

"And without trying to steal my wand," he said. "You will participate. You will not just lay there like a limp  _kukolka_. You will  _feel_."

Hermione shivered, hating him for realizing she'd been entertaining thoughts of laying back and thinking of England whilst mentally reciting History of Magic facts.

"Only if you promise not to hurt me  _and_  not to come after me when I've left," she said after a slowly, steadying breath.

His lips twitched.

"I will make no promise that you will not seek me out after,  _lisichka,"_ he goaded very softly. "And you will promise not to speak of any time spent in my presence. You will not seek to bring Aurors hunting for me. You will not report ever seeing me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"You will accept that when I've gone, I will never come back. You will never see me again," she countered.

He laughed huskily at her words. "Do not be so hasty to promise you will not see me again,  _mishka_. It will make you look foolish when you return of your own volition. Crow is not a meal you will enjoy."

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked. "Why would I ever come back if I managed to get away? Is there something wrong with you that you would pass to me that might make me return."

Dolohov shook his head. "I am perfect. Do we have a deal, Granger? Or shall you fight and live out your days as my tortured little plaything? Be warned, it gets lonely out here in the woods. I would be driven to  _play_  with you, often."

Hermione shivered, not at all liking that option.

"You agree I will go free, unharmed, and that you will not follow?" she confirmed.

"I do," he nodded. "If you agree that you will not fight, you will not speak of our meeting once you are gone, and that you will wholeheartedly participate in fucking me as though I were the man of your dreams."

"You're the man of my nightmares," Hermione told him quietly.

He grinned evilly.

"Deal?" he asked, his lips brushing her again as he spoke.

Hermione's mind raced, searching for whatever loophole he thought he might exploit. She found none and she knew it was a gamble, but the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

"Deal," Hermione breathed.

He sealed it with a kiss, surging forward to claim her lips with his own. Hermione was taken off guard, gasping in surprise and he took advantage of the situation, pressing forward as his tongue swept out to tangle with hers. He kissed her hungrily, his fingers tight in her hair and his nails scratching delightfully against her sensitive scalp. Hermione's grip tightened on his wrists, her mind telling her to fight him off even though her body was all for surrender.

He pulled back before she could really get into the kiss and she frowned at him.

When he suddenly pulled his wand, Hemione tensed, about to call foul and tell him that she hadn't been fighting and that if he broke their deal she would tear him limb from limb. She startled when he muttered a cleaning charm, passing the tip of his wand over her face. Hermione blinked, realizing he was removing the face-paint of her costume, wanting to see her properly without the smudged paint marring her features.

His lips twitched on a satisfied little smile when it was all gone and Hermione wondered what his damage was that he obviously preferred the way she looked without any kind of make-up on. Before she could ask, or utter a single word, he leaned into her once more, his lips brushing feather-light against hers. Hermione hated him more than ever when she realized he was trying to get her to kiss him back. He wanted  _her_  to be the one to deepen the kiss. He wanted her to be the one reaching for him and taking charge.

Knowing it would violate the terms of their agreement if she didn't actively participate, Hermione parted her lips, darting her tongue out to trace the seam of his lips and hating him all the more when he resisted for a long moment. When his tongue touched hers, he tasted of whiskey and smoke. Hermione wondered if he'd been drinking or smoking before transforming and chasing her through the woods as a bear. Wretched, Russian bastard.

Loosening her grip on his wrists, Hermione trailed her fingers the length of his forearms, shuddering as she brushed over his Dark Mark – the terrible black ink gone, but the angry red scar remaining. His lips twitched against hers as he snogged her hungrily when Hermione gripped his hips, pulling herself closer to his strong body and pressing insistently against the bulge in his jeans. Shirtless as he was, she touched him skin on skin and Hermione noted that he was still damp from the rain, his skin cold to touch but heating rapidly.

Unbidden, her fingers danced over the ripples of muscles on his washboard abdomen and she hated him all the more for being so fit. Pressing hungrily against him, trying to make him believe she was as into it as he wanted her to be, Hermione rocked her hips, grinding into him and feeling a responding throb from the snake in his jeans. She almost bit him when he let go of her hair, his hands smoothing across her collarbones before sliding under her clothes. She shuddered at the tender touch and he peeled the onsie she wore from her shoulder, sending it skidding the length of her body to pool about her feel, loose enough that it fell unhindered into a messy pile. She trembled with cold and quivered with fury and hatred and the terrible, building heat inside of her as he smoothed his hands across her chest to firmly cup her pert breasts.

Breaking the kiss, unable to stand it, Hermione nuzzled into his neck, nipping him hard enough to sting and feel a vindictive little thrill when he hissed.

"Careful,  _lisichka_ ," he murmured, tipping his head back to give her better access when she nipped him again before kissing a hot trail over his neck. "I like to play rough."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, loathing the delicious scrape of his stubble over her cheeks and her chin as she tormented him. He kneaded her breasts gently, pinching her nipples through her shirt and Hermione closed her eyes when they tightened to peaks, treacherous little spears of heat coursing through her to build between her legs.

Wanting it over with, Hermione trailed her fingers along the treasure trail of hair that led to the button of his jeans, popping it open and gritting her teeth at the rasp of his fly.

"So eager, Hermione?" he muttered into her ear, nibbling the lobe and making her crazy. Her ears had always been so sensitive, apparently hot-wired directly to her clit, and she'd just bet Dolohov knew it. She loathed that he'd used her first name, personalizing it in a way she'd tried to avoid.

"Eager for it to be over," Hermione retorted.

He nipped her sharply and Hermione gasped.

"Careful, Granger," he replied. "I'd hate to think you were violating our agreement by not wanting to fully participate."

Hermione growled under her breath, nipping him again in return and getting herself bitten for her trouble. He pinched her nipples sharply enough to sting and Hermione hated the way her body arched into the touch, her knickers dampening under his onslaught. He laughed as he snaked a hand around her back, unsnapping the clasp on her bra and peeling it down her arms, leaving her bare chested, like him.

Before she could delve her hands inside his jeans, Dolohov grabbed her arse and hiked her up his body, silently urging her to wrap her legs around him. Hermione obeyed, letting him kiss her and tangling her hands into his dark hair. He carried her with ease across the small expanse of floor that made up his lonely cabin and Hermione gripped him tighter when he lowered himself down to sit on the end of the bed in the corner of the room. She found herself straddling him in just her knickers and Hermione hated the naughty little thrill that rushed through her when she recalled that the last time she'd straddled a man had been years ago.

Her break up with Ron, borne of a loss of passion and a confliction over the notion of reproduction, had been preluded by some of the most boring sex she'd ever had and Hermione would bet that Dolohov knew that, too. He was torturing her in the most insidious way. By bargaining with her to enjoy it, he removed her ability not to feel and she realized with a jolt that that was his angle. He didn't want to hold her hostage and torture her physically. Knowing that she'd willing come upon his cock, or his fingers, or his tongue, would undoubtedly torment her psyche for the rest of her life.

Hermione pulled back from his lips with a gasp, accusatory eyes glaring at him. He chuckled huskily, angling her hips so the junction of her thighs bumped insistently against his hard cock. He didn't even meet her gaze, instead drinking in the sight of her creamy flesh, his hands tracing her pert breasts and then lowering, investigating the starburst of purple he'd left scarred upon her flesh when she'd been sixteen.

" _Krasivaya_ ," he murmured, drinking in the sight she made as she clung to his broad shoulders while he traced the shape of the scar. She could tell from the gleam in his eyes when he met her gaze that he was proud of the mark he'd left upon her.

Hermione hated it, and she hated him all the more for liking what he'd done to her.

"Such a strong  _mishka_  to have survived my curse," he murmured, taunting.

"Such a wretch to have attacked a child," she bit back, narrowing her eyes.

He laughed, uncaring over the insult.

"You aren't a child anymore,  _lisichka_ ," he said and Hermione hated that her body responded to his hot gaze as it trailed over her.

Hermione whined when he ducked his head, capturing one of her nipples in his hot mouth and suckling eagerly. Her back arched, thrusting her chest toward him more fully and he took advantage, his finger pinching her free nipple while he tormented her with his tongue. She loathed him. Panting, Hermione thought of every terrible curse word she knew and wondered how he would react if she hurled all of them at him. Unbidden, her hands tangled into his hair, holding him to her breast and Hermione closed her eyes, letting her head drop back as the spirals of heat converged beneath her abdomen.

He tore a breathy moan from her lips when he switched to the other nipple, his mouth and fingers trading places and making her crazy. Overcome, Hermione rolled her hips, desperate for friction between her legs and she gasped when he rocked under her, giving her just the faintest taste of what she suddenly and so poignantly wanted.

"Gods," Hermione breathed, her heart hammering inside her chest, lust overtaking her fear and her hatred, leaving her raw and needy and so desperately hungry for him that she could barely stand it.

"More?" he offered, releasing her breast with an affectionate lick.

"More," Hermione agreed, hating that she sounded like she was begging and just knowing that he was probably laughing at her.

Before she could lift off him, intent on getting her hands inside his jeans, he flipped them, depositing her in the center of the bed and snagging his fingers into her knickers. He slid them down her legs torturously and Hermione wanted to kick him as he kissed his way over the scar he'd left upon her chest, tracing the shape of it with his tongue as he stripped her naked.

He worked his way south and Hermione was delirious with pleasure and selfish enough to willingly spread her legs and let him feast on her if that was what he wanted.

"So eager," he hummed approvingly.

She would swear she heard him mutter "you'll be back," but it was muffled as he leaned into the junction of her thighs, giving her a long, sensual lick that made her moan. He didn't ease her into it, apparently too eager, and his stubble rasped against her thighs as he peeled her open with his fingers and began to feast. The swirl of his tongue over her clit was balanced with deep, lingering licks that penetrated her. She got the feeling that he was the type of man who would eat pussy all day long, if permitted, and she hated how badly she wanted to let him.

Clutching at the sheets and his hair, Hermione was desperate for an anchor and he laughed against her skin, offering her his hand and letting her tangle their fingers together, apparently confident in his skill to bring her off with his tongue alone.

He was right to be. Hermione cried out when, a short time later, her whole body spasmed, the spirals of pleasure all exploding like fireworks within her and making her ache and throb in the best way. Antonin ate her all the way through it, greedily licking up her juices until she fell, limp, to the bed. She was breathing hard and heavy with contentment as he rose to his full height. She watched through half-lidded eyes as he shucked out of his jeans, revealing his throbbing desire and making her ache with just the sight.

Gods, that was going to feel good inside her.

When he caught her licking her lips as she stared, he smirked. Hermione was too breathless to care and she tugged him down on top of her when he leaned over her. She didn't let him speak as he situated himself between her thighs, not trusting the wretch not to say something that would infuriate her. Wrapping her legs around his narrow hips, she claimed his mouth hungrily, titillated at the taste of herself upon his tongue. He fumbled slightly, aligning himself at her entrance and Hermione spread her legs wider, making room for him, holding her breath as she waited for the plunge.

He didn't plunge.

He pulled back from kissing her and Hermione blinked her eyes open to meet his stare when he lifted off her enough. His dark eyes were wild, glittering with unbridled lust and the strangest gleam of tenderness that she almost told him to get off her.

"Don't make me wait," she commanded huskily, tightening her legs around him, trying to pull him inside of her. He resisted, narrowing his eyes on her.

"Do you still want to run?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes," Hermione answered truthfully. "But not until we're done."

He raised his eyebrows at her frank statement and Hermione squeezed with her legs again, feeling the tip of him breach her entrance.

"You want this?" he asked, and Hermione wondered if he was testing her.

"I want this," she told him, hating herself for the fact that it was true. No matter the blackmail or the bargain, or the minor kidnapping that had landed her in his bed, right then she desperately wanted to feel every inch of him filling her up until she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Good," he grunted, thrusting home and making her breath hitch.

Merlin, she loved that bit. Her favourite part of sex was always the initial penetration when she could feel her muscles stretching, trying to accommodate the intrusion. She loved the rush of heat that always engulfed her. She loved the faint sting. She loved the dull ache that came before her body grew accustomed to the invasion and she clamped down on him tightly, her legs snug around him and her hands reaching for him as she took him deep inside her for the first time.

He groaned, burying his face in her neck, and Hermione sighed softly, tangling her fingers in his hair once more. She rocked her hips against him when he took too long to move.

" _Blyad!_ " he cursed softly and Hermione smirked to herself. "So tight,  _lisichka_. So warm."

He nuzzled her neck affectionately, peppering her flesh with tiny kisses even as he slowly withdrew almost entirely from her before plunging in once more. Hermione huffed, her body spasming at the heat and the friction. He did it again, slow and controlled as he thrust in and pulled back and thrust in again. Hermione could tell he was trying to cling to his self-control, and she desperately wanted to watch him lose it. She wondered what other Russian curses she could draw from him before he broke and for just a few minutes, she let herself forget what a monster he was.

Rocking into each thrust, Hermione clenched around him, making him curse again and again. She could feel the heat building within her and Hermione narrowed her eyes, wanting to chase the feeling, unhindered. Gripping his shoulders tightly, Hermione rolled the pair of them, surprising him if his grunt was anything to go by. When she was straddling him once more, this time impaled gloriously on every thick inch of him, Hermione pressed her hands to his chest and lifted. He chuckled, tucking his hands behind his head and flexing into her every time she sunk down on him.

"I should've known you would like to be in control,  _solnyshko_ ," he murmured, watching her as she rode him.

Hermione ignored his approving tone, chasing her orgasm, craving it now. She was using him for her pleasure, but she didn't care about that either. She rolled her hips, rocking and bouncing upon him. He cursed again when she sunk down with her back arched, her head tipped back, driving him against the fleshy patch inside her guaranteed to detonate her.

When he traced his fingertips over her stomach and then lower before circling her clit, Hermione moaned. She screamed when he suddenly pinched her clit, jolting her out of her rhythm and sending her careening into orgasm once more. He bucked under her, never letting up on her clit, and he groaned when he followed her into bliss, filling her up and making her tremble. Hermione collapsed against his chest, unable to stand the pleasure coursing through her and just wanting to sleep now. Boneless, she sprawled over him, breathing in the scent of his skin and noting idly that he smelled of pine needles and wood-smoke.

Silently he pressed at her knees, urging her to straighten her legs and sprawl across him fully. Hermione did as she was bid, unable to form coherent thought, let alone to recall who he was and the terrible things he'd done. He tucked her head under his chin, trying to catch his breath, his cock twitching inside her with every pulsing aftershock of her orgasm. When he curled an arm around her back, holding her to him gently, and began whispering things in Russian that she didn't understand, Hermione closed her eyes.

She needed to leave. She needed to find her wand out in the woods. She needed to run from him as fast as she could before the capricious monster could turn on her.

She didn't.

She didn't even move. For the longest time he laid there, whispering to her in Russian and lulling her toward sleep, and Hermione let him. He was still snugly nestled inside her when she slipped into the waiting arms of sleep. Her breathing even out and Antonin Dolohov trailed the tips of his fingers over the smooth expanse of her back, affectionately touching her skin just to feel the warmth and the power that lived inside her.

He ached with it. He'd never felt so satisfied after sex and he should've known that this sexy little mudblood would be his undoing. He should've known the minute she'd survived his curse when she'd been just sixteen that she was special. He should've run then. He should've been smart and let her get away, rather than continuing to pursue her. But like the bear he could become, he was curious by nature, and he'd wanted to know how she'd survived. He'd wanted to know how she'd lived when so many others had succumbed to his curse. He wanted to taste the fire in her blood and to see the starburst upon her skin.

After a while watching her, he'd wanted to taste her, too. Worst of all, he'd wanted her to want it. He'd wanted her to willingly spread her legs and let him ravish her. He'd wanted her to welcome him into all her heat and power and simmering hale-storm of emotion. He'd wanted to be welcomed into her embrace, fuck it all. He hated himself for wanting it, and he hated even more that he hadn't been able to think of a way to even get her alone with him like this without manipulating her and blackmailing her.

Most of all, he hated the fact that she made him want to be a better man. He hated it because he knew he would fail, and no matter how well he fucked her, she was never going to want him. Not beyond a good fuck, maybe. She'd never want him to be the father of her children. She'd never carry his name, or wear his ring. She would ultimately reject him, eager to be free of him, and disgusted by the sight of him when she knew only a hint of the terrible things he'd done. He hated knowing he wouldn't even stand a chance with her, because he was not a man who took rejection well.

He didn't want to have to break her, and he knew that if he couldn't have her, he would let anyone else enjoy her, either. He might be twisted and insane, but he was also spiteful and calculating and cold. He knew that he was behind her separation for the Weasley boy. He knew she'd never entertain thoughts of forgiving or tolerating a man like him.

He knew that when he let her go, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, he would go after her. He'd promised to let her go, and he'd promised not to follow, but he knew that if she didn't come back, eventually he would hunt her down. He couldn't resist anymore. He'd tried, for a time after the Dark Lord had fallen, he'd tried to put her out of his head and to set aside the burning ache in his groin to fuck her until she screamed his name.

Yet here he was, having lured her to his cabin in the woods and holding her in his arms. Here he was, his cock still buried inside her tight body. He knew he was all kinds of fucked up when he found himself hoping she would get pregnant. His mother would hex him stupid and curse him for a  _mudak_  if she could see him, hoping he'd impregnated a wretched mudblood.

He hoped it just the same.

Carding his fingers through the nest of curls that hung haphazardly about her shoulders, Antonin listened to the slow, deep breaths she took in sleep, amazed that she could sleep in his presence. Usually, she couldn't. He'd watched her sleep before, on nights when he snuck into her flat and spied on her. Usually, though she never spotted him, she seemed to sense his presence and grow restless. Perhaps he'd tired her out.

Smirking to himself, Antonin licked his lips, reveling in the taste of her where it lingered upon his tongue. He whispered to her some more, confessing his worst crimes in his mother-tongue and begging for her forgiveness though she couldn't hear him and didn't speak a lick of the language. Hermione slept on, even when his cock softened and eventually slid out of her.

Antonin sighed, carefully rolling her off him, intent on cleaning them both up. At the sink in the corner, he wrung out a cloth and cleaned himself before rinsing it out with warm water and returning to the tiny witch on the bed. Oblivious to his attentions, she slept on as he cleaned her up, unable to keep from pausing to kiss her skin multiple times. Gods, he'd watched for too long, and he didn't think he'd be able to just look anymore; not when he knew how good it felt to touch.

Once she was clean, Antonin arranged the covers on the bed, peeling them back and lifting her gently, slotting her between the blankets to ensure she wouldn't get cold. He smirked just a little as he climbed into bed beside her, pleased his bed was nestled in one corner where she would have to climb over him if she wanted to sneak out. He fished his wand and hers from the pocket of his jeans, laying them both side by side on the bedside table before he snuggled down in bed and pulled his little witch into his arms.

He fell asleep wondering if she would be gone by the time he woke, and hoping against hope that maybe – just  _maybe_  – he could convince her to stay.


	2. Chapter 2

Mid-morning autumn sun streamed in through a window and Hermione Granger groaned, stretching languidly upon the mattress before the previous night's activities came flooding back to her and she wrenched fully awake. Jolting upright, she scanned the single-room cabin with her eyes for signs of life, first checking the mattress beside her and finding it empty.

Across the cabin, standing at the stove and looking in her direction, a shirtless wizard was frying what smelled suspiciously like bacon.

"Easy,  _mishka_ ," he murmured when Hermione squeaked, gathering the covers over herself and scooting up the bed to press into the wall in fear of what he might do to her.

In the light of day, she had no guarantee that he would uphold his end of their bargain and she realized she'd been a fool to forget that she ought to force him to make an Unbreakable Vow. She had no guarantee that he would let her go.

"Breakfast?" Dolohov asked in a low, raspy voice that Hermione loathed for the way it made a part of her tingle strangely.

Hermione didn't remember falling asleep, having intended to leave long before she could do something as foolish as to sleep over.

"Where are my clothes?" Hermione asked, finding her voice, though it came out hoarse and thick with sleep.

"Where you left them," Dolohov replied, nodding toward the bear onesie she'd been wearing where it was piled on the floor and the to the shirt, bra and knickers he'd peeled her out of before having his way with her on the bed.

Hermione peeked at them, trying to gauge how likely it was that she might at least get her knickers and her shirt. She could hardly go tromping through the woods in search of her wand whilst naked. She eyed Dolohov worriedly, trying to understand why he was doing something as mundane as making breakfast when she was in his bed and still naked. Not that she wanted him to ravish her again, but it seemed more in line with what she knew of his character that he would be trying to seduce her into another round of sex, rather than offering to feed her.

He shook his head in amusement when she slid across the bed and darted down, still clutching the sheet, to collect the clothing closest to the bed that she could don, before scuttling back onto the bed and trying to wiggle into last night's knickers, even if she did have reservations about doing so.

"I've already tasted all of you, Granger," he reminded her. "Why do you bother to hide?"

"I'm leaving," she announced the minute she had her knickers and her singlet on.

"You don't want breakfast before you go?" he asked, sounding entirely too reasonable.

"I… No. No, I'm going before you attempt to keep me here any longer. And I'm not hungry, anyway," Hermione said sternly.

Dolohov looked over at her before raising one eyebrow skeptically when her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. Hermione's cheeks warmed.

"You realise you can't actually live on whiskey and candy, right  _pchelka_?" Dolohov drawled, seeming wickedly amused.

"I don't live on whiskey and candy," Hermione protested.

"When was the last time you ate anything homemade, Granger?" Antonin challenged, setting down the frying pan and turning to face her fully. "You and I both know that your panty is bare except for bags of chips, a block of chocolate, and enough sugar-mice to kill someone."

"I… that's not  _all_  that's in there," Hermione argued. "I'm sure I have… a few cans of soup. Maybe some packets of pasta… a bottle of sauce… I… why are you shaking your head at me?"

"You have none of those things in your pantry, witch," Dolohov told her. "You've been living on a steady diet of whiskey, candy, and take-out for months."

"Oh, and you know this because?" Hermione demanded, putting her hands on her hips and glowering at the Russian wizard, even though she was certain she didn't actually want him to tell her just how he knew that.

"Who do you think makes sure you make it home every night?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "More than once I've found you in that pub by the Ministry, beyond tipsy and being side-eyed by a bunch of bastards who'd do unspeakable things to a witch like you. Sometimes,  _mishka_ , I'm the only reason you make it home."

"Excuse me?" Hermione demanded. "I'm not some… sloppy lush. I don't have a drinking problem. I don't go out and get written off in public."

"No, you get just sloshed enough in public to excuse yourself before apparating home and drinking yourself into a stupor," Dolohov sneered. "You wouldn't have a clue how many times in recent months I've been in your flat – even helped you into your bloody bed."

"Well, maybe if you weren't stalking me, I wouldn't have this problem."

"Could be true. Weasley left you because of me," Dolohov informed her as though it were the most natural thing in the world to admit.

"Excuse me?" Hermione hissed, scandalized at his insinuations.

She most certainly did  _not_  have a drinking problem and she was sure she'd never needed to be helped to bed.

"You didn't know?" Dolohov asked, raising his eyebrows. "That fucker left you because every time he looked at you, he couldn't stand the reminders of the war splashed across your flesh. Your arm can be hidden under the pillows, but nothing hides that starburst on your chest, does it,  _solnyshko_?"

"You're saying Ron left me because my scars are ugly?" Hermione demanded. "He left because there was no passion between us, you bloody idiot!"

"He left because he hated seeing that mark on your chest and being reminded of the war and of losing his brother every time he looked at you," Dolohov sneered at her, and Hermione's eyes widened as she watched him begin serving the food he'd cooked onto two plates

"That's not true," Hermione denied.

"Why do you think he preferred to bend you over and fuck you, rather than looking you in the eyes when he took you,  _mishka_?" Dolohov said, not exactly unkindly even though it certainly wasn't what she wanted to hear. "Why do you think he hated letting you ride him, as you rode me last night?"

"If that's true, then you're the reason I'm miserable," Hermione accused bitterly.

"I'm the reason you're going to eat a decent, home-cooked meal today before I let you go anywhere," he retorted. "Come. Sit."

"I'm not eating breakfast with you, Dolohov. We had a deal. I didn't fight. I didn't struggle. I didn't scream or call out for help or try to hex you or hurt you or throw you off me. Now uphold your end and let me go free. I need to find my wand, thanks to you  _chasing me through the woods as a bear_! And then I'll be off your property and would appreciate never seeing you again."

"I've got your wand," he informed her, fishing the weapon from his pocket and showing it to her. "And you can have it back just as soon as you have some breakfast, witch."

Hermione glared at him, hating the way her stomach twisted with hunger. Knowing he wouldn't be reasoned with, Hermione stomped across the cabin and plonked herself down into the dining chair with all the petulance of a child, but she didn't care what he thought of her. His lips twitched just a little, his dark eyes glittering with amusement, and Hermione sighed when he carried over the plates of food and slid into the seat across from hers. The table was small, and his knees brushed hers beneath it when he sat, causing Hermione to flinch.

He set down her plate in front of her and Hermione sighed as the sweet scent of the breakfast wafted into her nose, making her stomach rumble with hunger again. She frowned at him when he handed her a bottle of brown sauce, apparently knowing she liked to eat it with her bacon, before he put ketchup on his own bacon and eggs and began to eat. Watching him warily, Hermione did the same, scooping up her knife and fork and beginning to dissect the meal before ingesting it.

He didn't talk as he watched her eat, and Hermione hated the way the hairs on the back of her neck prickled all too familiarly. He'd done this before, she realized. Many times. He was used to staying quiet and simply watching her.

"How often do you invade my flat, Dolohov?" Hermione asked quietly when she couldn't stand the silence for another minute.

"Every day," he answered, not at all looking ashamed of himself. "Your cat used to growl and bite me, but we're good friends now."

"You…" Hermione set down her knife and fork, feeling ill. "You invade my flat every day? You get along with my cat?"

He nodded, looking quietly proud of himself that she hadn't realized.

"But… It's warded," she said stupidly.

His laugh, when he gave it, was surprisingly rich; a nice sound that made something inside of her feel warm.

"I was a cruse-breaker before Azkaban, Hermione," he told her almost gently, surprising her even more with his use of her first name. "There are very few places well warded enough to keep me out. Your flat isn't one of them. Keeps everyone else out, mind you. But that's because I made some changes to the wards to keep you better protected."

"You're the only one I needed protection from!" Hermione hissed at him, feeling sick to her stomach to think that he'd been in her house every day.

He smirked, tipping his head to one side and regarding her like she was a curious experiment he was conducting. Hermione hated the way the look made her feel so vulnerable.

"And anyway, if you've been invading my flat every night for months and months, why bother kidnapping me last night?"

"I told you," he smiled. "Last night was one of the few nights you'd be able to go missing without people asking questions. You've been on a downward spiral for months,  _mishka_. Your friends  _expected_  you to leave them hanging last night."

"But if you only wanted me for… what we did last night… why bother waiting to lure me here?" Hermione asked, frowning and trying to figure out his logic. "Why not ask the same thing of me in my flat?"

"That's your home," he frowned at her. "Your only place of mild peace, these days. Had I shown myself and asked you to fuck me, you'd have been terrified and unreasonably uncooperative. And then you'd have moved house. Again. And you like where you live, right now."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she stared at the man, hating the way she noticed his dark fringe hanging in his eyes, and the striations of gold and black amid the warm brown of his irises. Hating the way she recalled looking into those eyes last night as he took her so deliciously.

"You… thought it would be less traumatic for you to  _kidnap_  me, and then run after me in the woods in the middle of the night  _as a bear_ , rather than simply asking me at my place?"

"I like the chase," he shrugged. "And you're more comfortable doing this here than you'd have been at your place."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes wide as she stared at him, her hand itching for her wand. He truly was insane. That much seemed clear.

"Why me, Dolohov?" Hermione asked quietly after resuming her breakfast without taking her eyes off him. "Why have you picked me as the object of your… infatuation? You fought in the war wanting to eradicate muggles and enslave muggleborns. What is it about me that could possibly appeal to you?"

"You survived my curse," he said. "At just sixteen."

"You were silenced and unable to cast it to it's full effect," Hermione argued with him. "And I  _almost_  died, just the same. Had you not been Silenced, I'd have charred from the inside out. And you've seen the scar you left on me. You almost killed me that night."

He nodded, tipping his head the other way and continuing to regard her curiously.

"Almost," he agreed. "But here you are. Whole. Alive. Healthy. Even Silenced, that spell would've killed anyone else. If not from the initial blast, then from the effect of the curse eating at your insides and making your burn until there was nothing left. But you're here. Does it ever pain you?"

Hermione frowned.

"No," she admitted. "Not really. The scar heats ups, sometimes. But it doesn't really hurt. It just sort of… tickles."

"Really?" he asked, and Hermione was amazed at the way his eyes lit up like he was a small boy who'd just made a brilliant discovery.

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Show me again?" he asked. "Before you go?"

"I… no," Hermione frowned at him. "I'm not about to let you peel me back out of my shirt."

"Okay," he shrugged, and Hermione narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"If I don't, you're just going to follow me home and wait until I'm asleep, aren't you?" she asked, glaring at him.

The innocent smile he offered her was entirely too charming and entirely unsettling all at once.

"We had a deal, Dolohov!" Hermione hissed. "I gave myself to you without a fight, and I get to go home and not be followed or stalked or harassed by you, anymore. That was the deal. When I leave today, you're never to see me again."

"I never agreed to that," he replied evenly. "I said I'd let you leave unharmed, and I will."

"We agreed you wouldn't follow."

"I don't have to follow you home,  _pchelka_ ," he smiled.

"But you will?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"Not if you don't want me to," he replied.

Hermione didn't trust him for a second. "Then, you accept you'll never see me again?"

"Of course, I'll see you again," he smirked. "You'll be back, Granger. It was another one of the reasons I brought you here. You need an escape. Soon, you'll learn a few things that will drive you right back into my bed."

"What could possibly push me to that?" Hermione demanded. "You're a Death Eater, Dolohov. You're a murderer. Some of my friends are dead because of you. You tried to kill me! What could possibly drive me to return to the arms of the man who's been stalking me since I was a teenager. You're… how many years older than me?"

"Twenty-three," he supplied.

"Making you…forty-nine?"

He nodded, looking like the numbers meant nothing to him.

"You've been intrigued by me for ten years? Since I was just a silly sixteen-yearold girl. And you were… what? Thirty-nine, then? What could possibly lure me back into bed with an obsessive stalker who took a liking to an underage girl? You served fifteen years in Azkaban. You're a wretched person."

Hermione squeaked when he suddenly lunged across the table, rising to his feet and moving around the table with his hands wrapped around her throat.

"Don't push me,  _mishka_ ," he warned, his accent thickening with his anger as he loomed over her. "You're mine. You'll be mine until the day you die, whether you like it or not."

"We agreed…" Hermione began, cut off when he pulled her onto her feet before leaning down and pressing his forehead to hers.

"I know what we agreed," he said hotly. "But you'll be back. I know it. Don't insult me by pointing out the many flaws in this relationship as though I'm unaware of them. You think I haven't tried to put you out of my head, Granger? You think I don't know that nothing good will ever come of this?"

Hermione gulped, her hands lifting to encircle his wrists, trying to make him loosen his grip.

"You think my fellow Death Eaters and the Dark Lord didn't laugh themselves hoarse when it became clear that you had piqued my curiosity?" he sneered. "You think I'll  _ever_  let anyone else have you if I can't?"

Hermione wheezed, unable to draw a full breath thanks to his tight grip, and unable to keep the tears from prickling in her eyes thanks to her fear. She was no fool. She knew he was unhinged and that he would hurt her. She knew that if she didn't run, she might one day find herself in a shallow grave behind this very cabin.

"You're hurting me," she managed to wheeze out as fear coiled through her limbs, making her dizzy.

His hands tightened for a long moment, and Hermione feared he might kill her, after all. But then he let go, his hands loosened on her throat, sliding up into her hair as he pulled her further into his arms, causing her cheek to press against his bare chest. He was breathing hard, his heart hammering out an angry beat inside his chest and Hermione felt tears trickle down her cheeks as she pressed her hands against him, wanting desperately to shove him away, but not daring.

After a long moment of standing there and listening to each other breath, Dolohov sighed out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry,  _mishka_ ," he murmured, dropping an affectionate kiss to the top of her head. "That was out of line. You are rightfully scornful of me and my… feelings. Unfortunately, you are not the first to have teased me about it, and I'm afraid I don't take kindly to it."

Hermione listened numbly, her mind racing as she desperately tried to think of a way to get out of there.

"I'm sorry too," she managed, surprising him if his sharply indrawn breath was any gauge. "I... shouldn't have said that. No matter your past crimes, you have proved that you're not utterly evil if you've invaded my flat every night without laying an unkind hand or wand upon me."

She felt him nod, his chin brushing the top of her head, and Hermione suspected he truly was insane.

"May I continue my breakfast, now?" she asked, desperate to find a way out of his arms, lest he hurt her again.

"I… yes," he muttered, pulling back from her for a moment.

He frowned into her face when Hermione looked up at him fearfully, and she flinched when he slid his hands free of her hair and cupped her jaw. He smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks, wiping away her tears and frowning worriedly. Hermione closed her eyes in terror when he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the middle of her forehead.

"You're afraid again," he sighed, stepping back and looking frustrated. "I hoped that last night would cure some of your fear, but I went and bollocksed it up again with my foul temper.  _Glupyy durak!_ "

He cursed in Russian, stepping back even more and running a self-loathing hand through his hair. Hermione slipped back into her seat at the table, her appetite thoroughly squashed, but her fear preventing her from simply running out the door. He still had her wand, and she couldn't leave without it.

Hermione watched as he plonked himself back down in his own chair, looking frustrated. She jumped when he jerked his wand from his pocket and flicked it at the teapot, causing it to levitate in their direction before boiling. She held her tongue when he fixed them both a cup of tea, noting with unease that he made hers exactly the way she liked it before he passed it to her.

"Thank you," she said politely, out of habit more than anything.

"You wish to leave," he surmised when a strained silence followed as she touched no more of her breakfast, though she drank her tea simply for something to do.

"I need to be getting home," she said. "Crookshanks will be hungry, by now."

He sighed at the excuse she offered, looking frustrated all over again. Hermione bit her lip, lowering her gaze to her lap and hoping desperately that he wouldn't lose his temper again.

"Can I make my foul temper up to you before you go?" he asked quietly.

"Um…." Hermione blinked, lifting her gaze to meet his. "How?"

He didn't answer verbally, instead slowly rising to his feet and rounding the table once more. She cringed when he stood beside her, and he sighed before offering her his hand with all the gentility of a gentleman off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Unsure of what else to do, Hermione took the proffered appendage after a few moments of hesitation.

He led her toward the bed and Hermione frowned, wondering what he intended to do.

"Dolohov… what?" she began, but she was cut off when he turned her in his hold before gently pushing her down until she was sitting on the end of the bed.

"I don't want you to leave feeling bad," he said, his accent so thick that she had trouble making out his words. Hermione frowned at him when he lowered himself slowly to the floor, squatting in front of her before he carefully let go of her hand and placed his palms upon her knees.

"You can't just…." Hermione began to protest, frowning at him.

"Please?" he asked, his eyes glittering with what looked rather like self-loathing and contrition. "Let me make it up to you and make you feel good."

"How does it count as an apology if you're the one shagging me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

"This is about you, not me,  _mishka_ ," he muttered, and Hermione's breath caught when he lowered his mouth and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh.

He smoothed his hands up the length of her thighs and Hermione frowned down at the top of his head when he trailed a line of kisses over her skin. Despite the fear fluttering in her veins thanks to his outburst, Hermione felt a whisper of desire course through her, too. She could recall, with alarming clarity, the sweet feel of his tongue making love to her last night. Ron had never been a fan of going down on her, and the other men she'd shagged in her life certainly hadn't been overly forthcoming, either.

And she  _did_  like the feeling of being worshipped when a man licked her out. Besides, she couldn't leave until he relinquished her wand, and Hermione suspected he wasn't going to do that until he reminded her that even though he was wicked and a monster, one of the darkest of dark wizards still evading the MLE, he was a thorough and gifted lover, too. Sighing and allowing herself to flop back on the bed, she surrendered to the feel of his lips on her skin, lifting herself enough to allow him to slide her knickers down her legs.

He was careful when he lifted her feet free of them, his hands gentle before he tossed the knickers over his shoulder. He lovingly traced his hands over her calves and to the backs of her knees before pushing her legs apart and making room for himself between them. Hermione didn't try to fight him off or push him away even as he lifted each of her legs, looping them over his shoulders before curling his arms under her arse and dragging her closer to the end of the bed.

Her stomach was doing backflips as he trailed hot kisses and little nips over her inner thighs, heading steadily toward their junction, and by the time he reached her pussy, Hermione was wet with need. He leaned into her, breathing in the scent of her skin like he couldn't get enough of it before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the top of her slit as though he loved her.

"Dolohov, I… oh, gods," Hermione began before the words she'd meant to say slipped away amid her expletive when he dragged his tongue over the center of her body, dipping it inside of her and licking up her sweet nectar.

Merlin's little green apples, but the man gave good head. Relentlessly, he licked and licked and licked at her flesh, coaxing more and more pleasure from her body and Hermione was soon delirious with the sensations he inspired. He dipped his tongue inside her, licking as deeply as he could, fucking her with the wet, pink muscle in such a way that Hermione could barely stand it, but still couldn't get enough.

He curled his arms around her body, cuddling into her as he licked her out, lapping her and holding her like he loved her. Maybe he did. Hermione didn't know. She knew he was intrigued. Infatuated. Obsessed. She knew it was dangerous to encourage him, and that she should be protesting his attentions rather than allowing them this way, encouraging him with her breathless cries of delight.

Threading her fingers into his wavy brown hair, Hermione rocked herself against him, her body desperate for more. Fire curled through her blood, racing through her veins and making her crazy. It coiled, low in her abandon, building and building, just waiting to snap free.

When it did, Hermione moaned, a low, breathy sound ripping from her lungs and echoing throughout the small cabin. Dolohov's triumphant chuckle was beyond wicked, and Hermione whined when he licked her right through the orgasm, continuing to torment her until she was sure she might explode all over again.

"I can't," she whimpered, her fingers tightening in his hair, her head tossing from side to side on the bed. "I can't do it again."

He ignored her protests, nuzzling into her deeper, sliding his fingers inside of her alongside his tongue and Hermione saw stars. Merlin's hula-hoops, she was in trouble.

"Antonin, I…." she tried to say, the words coming out breathless and needy.

He groaned into her pussy, clenching his eyes closed as though he couldn't stand the sound of his name rolling off her tongue amid her pleasure. He drove his fingers into her harder, beckoning them while he wrapped his lips around her clit and began suckling it intently.

"Oh, fuck!" Hermione hissed, arching under his touch as the second wave of orgasmic bliss suddenly rose and crested and crashed over her.

All her fear and her concerns flew right out the window as the pleasure exploded inside of her, coursing through her limbs and making her crazy. This time when she orgasmed, Dolohov didn't laugh. He simply leaned into her, licking her through the release before crawling up her body just far enough to lay his cheek upon her abdomen. Hermione sighed contentedly, carding her fingers through his hair before it occurred to her that, true to his word, he'd made that entirely about her pleasure, rather than his. She could tell because when he shifted against her slightly, lowering her legs from over his shoulders to better curl his arms around her midriff, she could feel the throbbing and engorged erection he sported.

Despite the two intense orgasms, and despite the fear and concern she felt over this man's obsession with her, Hermione found herself reaching for him, wanting to bring him the same release he'd brought her.

"What are you doing,  _kotik_?" he murmured when she shifted under him, pulling at him, trying to drag him up her body.

"Come up here," Hermione whispered. "I want to feel you inside of me."

"This was about you," he muttered, nuzzling into her breasts when he reached them as he heeded her urging despite his protests. "My apology. Apologies are supposed to be about one person suffering while the other achieves relief. It negates my apology if I take my pleasure now."

"Please?" Hermione whispered without thinking, barely registering that she was now begging him to shag her when she should be squirming out from under him and running for the door.

" _Chert voz'mi, dorogoy_ ," he muttered into her neck in Russian when Hermione slid her hands down his back to his waistband, peeling his jeans down far enough to free his cock.

Reaching between them, Hermione curled her hands around the silken steel rod, using it to pull him even closer, trying to pull him within reach, intent on having him.

" _Blyad_!" he cursed, curling his arms under her back and wrapping his hands around the tops of her shoulders. He kept his face hidden against her neck as though he feared she might change her mind if she could see his face again.

Hermione wrapped her legs around the wizard needily, guiding his cock to her entrance before digging her heels into his bum cheeks, canting her hips to take him. He groaned against her skin as he penetrated her, driving in deep and making Hermione sob with the bliss of being impaled. For a long, breathless minute, he simply held himself there deep inside of her, breathing unevenly against her neck like he could barely stand it and Hermione rolled her hips, coaxing him into moving, desperate for friction. She didn't think she'd be able to come again, but she was only too willing to bring him undone after the bliss he'd inspired within her.

" _Ochen' tugo,"_ he muttered. " _Ochen' vlazhnyy!"_

Hermione didn't need to speak the language to figure out what he'd said then, and she smirked just a little as she clenched her pelvic floor. He groaned against her neck before withdrawing from her slowly and plunging back in. Sighing contentedly, Hermione did it again, squeezing him tightly, and he cursed again, rearing back.

Determined to break his self-control, Hermione rocked under him.

"Gods, Antonin," she whispered. "That feel  _so_  good."

He emitted a sound akin to a low whine, a frustrated, pained sort of sound as though she were torturing him. He drew back again, plunging into her harder and Hermione arched into his thrust. Hermione dragged her nails gently down his back in response, desperate to break him.

He withdrew and plunged again, seeming like he was teetering on the edge of his control, trying desperately to keep from hurting her, from scaring her, from taking her as she was sure he so desperately wanted to.

"Please, Antonin," Hermione breathed as she turned her head and kissed his cheek before pressing her lips to the shell of his ear. "Fuck me like you love me."

It pushed him over the edge and his arms around her tightened as her words sank in.

"Fuck!" she heard him mutter in a low, almost panicked voice before he picked up his pace, pulling back and slamming into her harder and harder. He took her like a man possessed, and Hermione rocked under him, letting him lose control in her arms and wondering if she was making a terrible mistake.

Every brutal stroke filled her to bursting, scooting her body up the bed further and further as he took her as hard as he knew how. Hermione cried out in a mixture of pleasure and pain, writhing in his arms, her heart pounding and her mind filling with the wicked bubbles of desire like champagne poured too quickly into a flute and just waiting to overflow.

Dolohov licked and nipped at her neck, marking her skin, leaving a wicked lovebite below her ear as he took her. Pushed over the edge and beyond control, he fucked her like he loved her; like he hated her; like he wanted strangle the life right out of her, and like he wanted to watch her birth his children into the world. He fucked her with every wicked thing inside of him, and every good thing inside of him, too. Hermione cried out when, despite the brutal ravaging and the intensity of the two she'd already had, another orgasm snuck up on her just before he drove in even harder, his lips nibbling at her earlobe as he began to explode, losing himself inside her.

" _Ya delat' lyublyu tebya, medvezhonok!"_  he growled into her ear as he came, his cock twitching deep inside her as it emptied, filling her up and stealing her breath all at once.

Hermione didn't know what he'd said, but the amount of raw emotion and fury, and utter certainty in his voice scared her. He collapsed on top of her after that, both of them breathing hard and Hermione fought the urge she had to let sleep claim her all over again. Intent on distracting herself, she cast her eyes around his tiny cabin, wondering idly why he lived there, of all places.

"Antonin?" Hermione asked softly when she'd gotten her breath back, tracing her hands over his back.

" _Krasotka_?" he asked, sounding curious and intrigued thanks to her use of his first name. She found herself wishing she understood Russian, unable to translate despite what little she'd learned of Bulgarian from Viktor over the years.

"Why do you live here?" Hermione asked of the wizard on top of her.

He propped himself up on his elbows at her question, peering down into her face in confusion.

" _Chto_?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

Hermione guessed that must mean 'what' and cast a hand in the direction of his cabin.

"Why do you live here?" she asked. "I never imagined you to the type to live in a tiny hunting cabin in the woods. Didn't I read somewhere that you've a large estate?"

His brow furrowed further.

"I'm a fugitive,  _kotyonok,"_  he reminded her. "The first place the MLE would search for me is my estate."

"Right," she nodded. "Still. Surely there are more comfortable lodgings you could inhabit than this. It's so… lonely."

He cast a glance around and Hermione wondered if he saw what she saw. The single armchair by the fireplace. The tiny dining table better suited to one diner than two, the small expanse of space. Even the collected furniture was dull and Spartan.

"I am not used to large spaces after fifteen years in my cell, Granger," he told her truthfully. "And I am used to my own company. I have little patience for the company of others, and little need for it whilst still on the run."

"They are still actively hunting you, then?" Hermione confirmed.

"Currently they are trying to lure me out of hiding by marketing off my estate," he informed her bitterly, peering into her face with the intense curiosity that so unsettled her.

"Really?" she frowned.

He nodded. "Someone at the Ministry had the bright idea that I might protest having my house and my land sold off to the highest bidder, and thus, would make an appearance to ward it against intruders and to ensure any who tried to buy it would meet an untimely end."

"They're using your house as bait?" she asked.

He nodded again. "Not that it matters to me. I have not lived there in more than twenty-five years. Besides, they will find, should they manage to sell it off, that my mother is less than forgiving and a right pain in the  _zhopa_."

"How can they sell it if she still lives there?" Hermione asked.

"They don't know she lives there. And she is not a British citizen," Antonin shrugged. "She never transferred citizenship from Russia and she keeps very much to herself. They imagine the place is haunted, I expect. She is the kind to hide and attack from the shadows when they come to call."

He smirked like that fact amused him, and Hermione shook her head, alarmed by the notion of a grown wizard finding amusement in his mother being a sneaky, crafty old crone stirring up trouble for the MLE.

"Could you get off?" she asked, changing the subject. "You're getting heavy."

He raised one eyebrow, still looking amused, before he withdrew himself from inside of her and rolled to the left, sprawling across the mattress next to her.

"So, do you accept my apology?" he asked after a moment. Hermione looked at his sideways across the bed, still sprawled on her back beside him.

"I suppose," she said warily. "Though I'd appreciate it if you never wrap your hands around my throat intent on strangling me ever again."

He nodded.

"That's reasonable," he conceded.

Hermione frowned at him for his completely blasé tone. She wondered how truly damaged his mind must be that he thought she would ever see him again after today. Just as soon as she could get away, she was going to flee and then she was going to pack off of her belongings and move somewhere he'd never find her.

"May I have my wand back now?" she asked finally.

"Still leaving,  _kotik_?" he asked, looking slightly crestfallen.

"Crookshanks will be hungry," she offered.

He sighed, looking like he knew that was just an excuse and Hermione held his gaze, refusing to back down, intent on getting her wand and getting out of there. Resignedly, he fished her wand from the pocket of the jeans he still wore haphazardly, tucking himself back into them as he did so.

"Thank you," Hermione said politely, sitting up when she had the weapon.

She thought seriously about turning it on him and hexing him into next week. Merlin, she thought about Stunning him and then binding him to a chair and leading the Aurors right over.

But she didn't.

Reaching for her knickers from the floor where he'd tossed them, Hermione scooped them up, intent on donning them one more time so she could finally get away. Before she could take a step, Dolohov suddenly sat up and reached for her again. Hermione squeaked in surprise when he slid his hand between her legs, cupping her pussy in a way that felt strangely snug and reassuringly.

" _Sokhranit'yvat,"_ he muttered, and Hermione's eyes widened as magic tingled through her lower half.

"What did you just do?" she asked, staring at him wide eyed and not recognizing the spell. It wasn't of Latin origin, and she suspected it was something from his mother-tongue, though it sounded like a bastardization of more than one word from the way he struggled to wrap his tongue around it.

"Nothing,  _zaichik_ ," he murmured, though the wicked smile that curled his lips made Hermione nervous.

"What did you do?" Hermione demanded, lifting her wand and digging it into the side of his neck.

"Nothing," he replied evenly, not seeming at all bothered by the threat of her wand. "You will feel no ill effects,  _zvyozdochka_."

"What was the spell?" Hermione demanded, stamping her foot and realizing he still had his hand cupped around her pussy.

"A contraceptive," he said, and Hermione narrowed her eyes on him. "Unless… you'd rather risk falling pregnant with my spawn,  _lapochka_?"

Hermione recoiled violently, feeling sick to her stomach at the very thought. His eyes tightened with anger, and Hermione stumbled a few steps away from him, aiming her wand at him, intent on ensuring he didn't try anything else. Summoning the rest of her outfit, and snatching hold of it before she backed across the room and towards the door.

He dogged her steps, taking one step in her direction for every one she took away from him and Hermione narrowed her eyes hatefully.

"Don't follow me," she warned. "We had a deal. If you follow me, if you try to harm me, then you'll have broken out bargain and I will return here with the entire MLE at my back to ensure they apprehend you, Dolohov."

"That's not very nice, Hermione," he clucked his tongue, looking wickedly amused like the threat turned him on rather than scaring him, as she'd intended.

"You're not very nice," she retorted before backing all the way out of the room and across the porch. She wanted to get a good look at the cabin so that she'd be able to return with the authorities should whatever spell he'd done prove harmful, after all. When she was on the front lawn, he leaned against the railing of the porch at the top of the steps, still shirtless as he watched her.

" _Skoro uvidimsya, mishka_ ," he murmured to her, smiling wickedly.

Hermione actually knew that one.  _See you soon, little bear_.

"No, Dolohov," she said quietly in response just before she Disapparated. "You'll never see me again."

* * *

**Translations:**

_Mishka_  - little bear

Solynyshko - little sun

 _Zaichik_  - bunny

 _Pchelka -_ honey

 _Skoro uvidimsya_  - see you soon

 _Glupyy durak -_ stupid idiot

 _Kotik_  - pussy cat

 _Kotyonok -_ kitten

 _Blyad_  - Fuck

 _Chert voz'mi_  - Damn it / Oh shit

 _Dorogoy -_  darling / sweetheart

 _Ochen' tugo -_ so tight

 _Ochen' vlazhnyy -_ so warm

 _Ya delat' lyublyu tebya, medvezhonok -_ I do love you, little bear / baby bear.

 _Krasotka -_ pretty girl/woman

 _Chto_  - what?

 _zvyozdochka -_ little star

 _lapochka -_ sweetie pie

 _Zhopa_  - Ass / Butt


	3. Chapter 3

When she returned home, Hermione immediately ran to the shower, streaking past Crookshanks and diving under the hot spray as soon as she'd turned the taps on. She needed to wash the feel and smell of him from her skin. She needed to try and cleanse herself of the terrible and foolish thing she'd done. Until the stinging hot torrent, she scrubbed her skin until it glowed pink and almost raw while Crookshanks sat outside the shower yowling and meowing in annoyance at not being given his breakfast in a timelier manner.

"You don't deserve breakfast, you no good little guard-cat," Hermione growled at her familiar. "You've been letting Dolohov in here for months and months, you little beast! He could've been planning to kill me, and you just let him come and go as he pleased?"

Crookshanks yowled reproachfully and Hermine glared at him through the glass door of the shower. It occurred to her when she noticed a ratty looking hairball that had clumped it's along his tail that she hadn't actually stopped to look at her familiar properly in months. Oh, she fed him often and she talked to him whenever she was home, but she couldn't remember doing much in the way of grooming the cat or paying him a whole lot of love or attention.

Frowning, Hermione turned off the taps and stepped out of the shower. When she found that she'd left her towel on the floor last night after running around like mad trying to get ready to meet her friends, she scowled all the more before using her wand to dry off. Snatching her bathrobe off the hook on the back of the door – and noting as she pulled it on that it smelled musty and like it needed a good launder – Hermione let herself out of the bathroom and stomped all the way into the kitchen.

Once there, she jerked open the door on the pantry and her scowl deepened to find that Dolohov had been right. Inside the cupboard a lonely packet of potato crisps – expired and in a flavor she recalled to be Ron's favourite – kept the company of a half-eaten bag of sugar-mice and a block of mint chocolate – which was another flavor she didn't much care for. Indeed, she suspected the only reason they were still in the cupboard were because they weren't flavours she liked, and she'd been too lazy to throw them out.

Literally everything else had been eaten. There wasn't a single packet of pasta, a half-empty bag of rice, a tin of soup, or even a bag of flour. When she went to the fridge, Hermione's scowl deepened at the sight of a few containers of leftovers littering the shelves – some of them looking like they were well beyond their used by dates thanks to the mould growing in them. In the door there was a carton of milk – expired – and a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. That was it. Nothing else. No vegetables rotting in her crisper, no cheese, no butter, no jam. Not even a bottle of pumpkin juice. The freezer was in much the same state – all she managed to dredge up was a sad looking bag of frozen vegetable. When she peered inside it, she noticed that though it was supposed to be some kind of stir-fry mix, only green beans remained – another non-favourite of hers.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin!" Hermione scowled, looking around the kitchen before opening the cupboard where she kept Crookshanks's food. That, she squeaked to discover, was full to overflowing with boxes of food, bags of biscuits, cat-treats, dental chews, tins of the processed food Crooks devoured. Indeed, the cupboard was so full – many of the items doubled or tripled and purchased in bulk-sizings – that much of it tumbled right out the door in a mini avalanche while she tried and failed to juggle the missiles.

It was clear to her that though she hadn't bothered stocking up her own food supplies, she must often distractedly pick up more food for her familiar on her way home from work.

As she stood there with Crooks rubbing against her ankles and purring in the hopes of being fed all his favourite foods, Hermione tried to remember the last time she'd actually been to the grocery store.

She couldn't recall.

"Crooks…" Hermione frowned, peering down at the cat before feeding the little monster when he started biting her in annoyance for taking so long.

"Merlin's beard, Crookshanks, what have I been  _doing_  with my life?" she muttered to the cat, sitting herself down on the floor of her flat.

She noticed as she did so that the corners under the edge of the counter hid a build up of dust bunnies and furballs, and something sticky – most likely spilled whiskey – made her gown stick to the floor where she sat. Obviously, she hadn't done any cleaning in quite a while, either.

Crookshanks yowled at her in a way that seemed rather judgmental and Hermione tried to remember the last time she'd done housework or been home before ten in the evenings. She worked long days at the Ministry, slogging through mountains of paperwork in the DRCMC endlessly as she dealt with complaints, filed investigations, and processed claims relating to magical creatures. She was usually the first one there in the mornings, and she often locked up as the last one to leave at night.

Merlin, when was the last time she'd had dinner in her flat? She didn't even know.

"Well… fuck!" Hermione cursed, putting her face in her hands and wondering if maybe what Dolohov had said was right. Maybe his sneaking into her flat hadn't been all that hard because whenever she was here she was either drunk of hungover.

And blast it all, he'd been right that she did actually like this flat. She didn't  _want_  to pack up all her things and leave. Merlin, she couldn't leave even if she had wanted to, with the state the place was in. It would take days to get it clean enough to pass a bond-clean inspection, not to mention that doing so would break her lease, costing her hundreds of extra pounds until a tenant could be found to replace her. What was more, as she peered around the room and noticed more and more evidence that her life had been utterly falling apart around her without her noticing, she began to think that maybe Dolohov had been telling the truth.

Maybe he  _was_  the only reason she made it home, some nights.

Gods, when had she become such a mess?

Her eyes danced around the room, noting the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge, and the bottle of vodka stashed by the kettle. She spotted the wine rack by the door – without a speck of dust on it and clearly recently restocked.

Had she become a drunk? A functioning alcoholic? Good Godric, what had become of her life? She was only twenty-six, for Merlin's sake! Certainly, things had taken a few downhill spirals, what with her job not being all she'd hoped it would be, and with her and Ron breaking up, and her parents refusing to speak to her even after she'd reverted the memory charms she'd performed upon them for their own protection. She'd known that a few things had been eating away at her, but she hadn't realized things had gotten this bad.

Hauling herself to her feet, Hermione padded down the hall and into the bedroom. She didn't know what to make of the state of the room. The sheets on the bed looked fresh – making her wonder if Dolohov had been changing them for her since she couldn't remember the last time she'd changed them. The bedside table was piled high with books that she recalled devouring – most of them trashy romance novels that only really made her feel worse about herself and her failed relationship with Ron. There was nothing like a good bodice-ripper to remind her that no one was ripping her out of her bodice…. Well… no one except Dolohov, she thought with a shudder.

The rest of the room was a pig-sty. Clothing littered every surface, crumpled, piled in the corners, and mounded upon the chair in the corner, Hermione had no clue what was clean, what was dirty, and what even still fit her.

"Disgusting," she muttered to herself.

She couldn't keep living like this. She wouldn't. This was just… wrong. Apparently, she needed to get her life in order and Hermione was going to start by getting this flat clean and looking like she actually lived here and was a well-behaved, mature witch, rather than like some bachelor pad reject of a frat boy who'd fallen on hard times.

She didn't know how well it would go, given that she had no idea where to start. She supposed it made sense that she should pick up all the clothes on the floor and put them through the wash. Then she could start on the floors. Sighing heavily and trying to push memories of her time with Dolohov out of her head by locating her walkman and stuffing the earbuds in her ears to blast the music, Hermione dove into cleaning for the distraction it was.

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

No one came to check on her even though she'd stood them up last night. No one owled her throughout the day as she struggled to get her home livable again. No one spoke to her when she went out to buy groceries. Hermione realized with alarming clarity that Dolohov had been right. She was a prime target to be kidnapped because from what she could tell, she'd pushed everyone out of her life without even meaning to. Maybe they had pulled away, first? The Weasleys, she knew, had to side with and support Ron through their breakup. Even Harry was obligated to support Ron thanks to his marrying Ginny. She was hurt that even having skipped last night's get together, none of them called on her to find out why she'd stood them up.

Luna, she didn't blame because the blonde was away on another expedition searching for magical creatures. Hermione knew because they worked in the same department and Luna had grown to be perhaps her closest confidante as a result. Neville, she supposed, was off at Hogwarts teaching, so he wouldn't know she'd skipped the soiree. And it seemed she had no one else in her life, as no one came to mind, and Hermione found that rather depressing, too.

To make matters worse, her first instinct was to rectify the neglect she'd caused and contact her friends, but it occurred to her as she was scrounging up some ink and parchment that she had no excuse to offer them. Unless... well... she supposed she could tell her friends she'd run into someone and gone home with him. Technically, it was true. She could evade their resultant questioning and say it had been no one of consequence, or even that she'd forgotten his name.

Biting her lip, Hermione frowned ay Crookshanks before deciding that without an owl, a letter was too much trouble. It was also too easy to ignore. No, if she was going to make amends, she would have to do it in person. Dressing herself appropriately for the autumn weather - and adding a scarf to hide the love bites Dolohov had left on her neck - Hermione ruffled Crookshanks' fur and left her flat, intent on calling on Harry and Ginny.

She braced herself for their annoyance on the stoop before knocking smartly on the door even though she knew that in the past Harry had given her free reign to come and go as she pleased.

Ginny was the one to answer the door, and Hermione caught the way the other woman's eyes raked up and down the length of her slender frame judgmentally before she offered any form of greeting. Well… that didn't bode well.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked, almost as though she didn't recognize her.

"Hi, Ginny," Hermione said, smiling nervously. "Can I come in?"

"I... yeah, sure," Ginny said stepping back and looking a little baffled. "Is everything alright? Where were you last night? Are you feeling alright? We haven't had you stop round in months..."

"Is Harry home?" Hermione asked, not wanting to have to explain herself twice.

She noticed that they'd re-papered the halls and the kitchen when she strolled through to the kitchen where she spied Harry fixing himself a cup of tea and looking a little hungover. He was still in his pyjama pants, she noted with a small smile and a swell of affection at the sight of her best friend.

"Hermione?" He asked when he turned to ask Ginny who'd been at the door.

"Hi, Harry," she smiled, helping herself to one of the breakfast-bar stools and interlocking her fingers as she regarded the young couple.

"Hi…" Harry said, frowning a little like he didn't know what to make of her being there. "Erm… Everything alright, Hermione? We weren't expecting you… Actually, after you didn't show up last night we kind of thought you might've been sick of us, to be honest."

Hermione smiled tightly.

'That's why I came by," Hermione said delicately. "I want to apologize for being so distant lately. I got a little bit of a… wake-up call… last night and I realized that my life is an absolute mess. I've been… drinking too much and working inordinate hours and cancelling on plans with you guys, and ducking owls."

"Hermione…" Harry said, his brow furrowing with concern. "I mean… I know you've been busy, but I didn't realize…. Drinking?"

Hermione nodded, biting her lip.

"Yeah…. I um… I cleaned up my flat this morning. I found twenty-seven half-consumed bottles of assorted liquor," Hermione confessed quietly. "I… haven't been home very often, other than to sleep off the booze, apparently. All I had in my pantry was some stale chips that Ron left behind, and some mint-chocolate."

"You don't eat Mint-Chocolate," Harry frowned a her.

"I know," Hermione nodded. "I've been… struggling, I suppose. I hadn't realized it until last night, but there you have it. And so I came by to apologize for being rude, and not keeping in contact and I just hope you can forgive me."

"Is this some kind of self-imposed intervention?" Ginny asked, frowning at her.

Hermione laughed self-deprecatingly.

"I suppose so. I just… can't help wondering if anyone came to check on me last night when I didn't show up…" Hermione said, frowning a little.

Harry and Ginny both looked a little guilty.

"Well… we sort of thought… when you didn't come…" Ginny frowned. "You've missed so many events and functions with us lately that… no, we didn't come looking."

Hermione bit her lip.

"You said you got a wake-up call last night?" Harry frowned at her. "What happened, Hermione?"

Hermione sighed, surprised by how hurt she was that they hadn't contacted her. Dolohov was right. No one would've come looking for her.

"If I'd disappeared last night… died, or been kidnapped… how long do you think it would've taken you to notice?" Hermione asked them seriously. "Be honest. Don't worry about my feelings. I need to know how long it might've taken before you realized I was gone?"

Harry looked down, frowning fiercely.

"Probably not until your work reported you missing if you didn't show up for a few days," Ginny confessed. "You never call or write, you never show up to events anymore, even when you do bother to say you will. You missed both of our birthdays this year, Hermione. You missed Fleur's baby-shower. You even missed George and Angelina's wedding! You haven't been around, and if I'm being honest, I'm a bit annoyed with you for it. So… yeah, it likely would've taken until your overseer got in contact with us about whether or not we'd heard from you when you didn't show up for work."

Hermione winced at Ginny's blunt nature.

"We… Ginny doesn't mean that, Hermione," Harry said.

"Don't bother, Harry," Hermione sighed. "She means every word, and I can hardly blame her if I really have missed all that."

"What happened to bring you to your senses, anyway?" Ginny wanted to know, moving over to refill the kettle and put it on and begin making them all a cup of tea even though Hermione hadn't asked for one.

Hermione chewed her bottom lip for a long minute, tossing up what to say. She'd made a deal with Dolohov that she wouldn't say she'd seen him, and since he'd let her go, she could hardly renege on that bargain.

"I… met someone," she said.

"What? Who?" Harry asked. "Where?"

"Um… when I was out for a stroll," she said. "I got restless being at home and went walking. I ran into someone and… well, I went home with him, if I'm being honest."

"And a bit of sex brought you to your senses?" Ginny asked. "Must've been a good shag."

Hermione frowned.

"It got me wondering how long it'd take all of you to notice if I hadn't come back from his house," she confessed.

"Why wouldn't you have come back from his house?" Harry asked, looking suspicious and unlike Ginny, who seemed amused, Harry was clearly worried and concerned by what she wasn't telling them.

"That good, was he? What's his name?" Ginny asked, bringing her a cup of tea – made incorrectly to how Hermione liked it, these days, though Hermione didn't mention it.

"His name isn't important," Hermione said, sipping the overly sweetened tea without complaint. "I won't be seeing him ever again."

"You just said he was so good he shagged you to your senses," Ginny protested.

"No, she didn't, Ginny," Harry said. "She said she was brought to her senses and wondered if we'd have noticed if she'd been kidnapped, before saying she has no plans to ever see him again."

Hermione realized that while she'd been slogging through meaningless paperwork in her DRCMC job, Harry had clearly been honing his skills as an Auror. He'd picked up on everything she didn't want him to know.

"Hermione?" Ginny asked, frowning.

"Did he hurt you?" Harry asked her seriously, leaning forward and taking one of her hands, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She suspected from the way he watched her that he was looking for signs that she didn't want to be touched – probably fearing she'd been raped.

"He didn't hurt me," Hermione assured him. "But I won't ever be seeing him again."

"You don't look convinced," Harry told her. "Who was it, Hermione? You never just go for walks. I've been keeping an eye on you, when I can. You don't go for walks. Sometimes when you leave work you go to the pub, and there's been a time or two when I've made sure you got home safely, but I know you. You wouldn't go for a walk and randomly go home with a stranger. Whoever this bloke was, you knew him. And he scared you. Scared you enough that you've come here wondering how long it'd've taken us to come to your rescue if he didn't let you go. So… I'm thinking Death Eater."

"You slept with a Death Eater?" Ginny asked, recoiling in horror and Hermione frowned into Harry's serious green eyes, realizing that while she'd been busy drinking herself stupid, he'd been maturing and growing into an amazing man and a brilliant Auror.

"Did he force himself on you, Hermione?" Harry asked, and Ginny gasped, covering her mouth with her hand at the very suggestion, like she couldn't bear it.

"I wasn't forced," Hermione said evenly.

"Being blackmailed or coerced into it is still rape, Hermione," Harry informed her. "What did he threaten you with? Who took you?"

Hermione bit her lip, searching his face and suspecting that he would launch an investigation immediately if she told him the truth. She'd made a deal not to do that, and she didn't think she could stand the idea of being forced to move to a new house when Harry insisted on protective custody. She didn't think Dolohov would take kindly to her alerting the authorities, either, and she doubted he would be merciful if he was hunted down.

"It doesn't matter, Harry," Hermione told him, pulling her hand out of his grip and picking up her teacup once more. "It was the wake-up call I needed to stop being so bloody ridiculous."

"You realize that I'm on the task-force hunting the Death Eaters who are still at large, don't you?" Harry asked. "I know how many names are on that list, Hermione. None of them are good; if you know where any of them are, you should tell me, so I can apprehend him."

"You wouldn't survive the encounter, Harry," Hermione said with a bitter laugh. "He's not Voldemort, with his insistence on proper dueling etiquette. He'd roast you alive before you could Stun him."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking that they're wanted alive, Hermione," Harry said sternly. "There are five Death Eaters still at large, and they are all wanted Dead or Alive. If he's laid a finger on you, I'll kill him."

"You're not fast enough," Hermione told him. "I wasn't fast enough."

"You said he'd roast me alive?" Harry frowned. "That narrows it down to just two Death Eaters, Hermine. So… was it Rowle or Dolohov?"

Hermione scowled at his deductive reasoning, realizing he actually was very good at his job these days. It was a refreshing change from how oblivious he used to be in the past.

"It doesn't matter, Harry."

"I hope it was Rowle," Ginny muttered. "Dolohov is…" she shuddered, the hatred she held for the man who'd killed her uncle's, her brother, Remus, and Tonks written across her face.

Harry was still watching Hermione closely and he seemed to catch the way her expression twisted just a little when she recalled what a monster Dolohov really was. She could see the moment he realized that she'd been with Dolohov last night and Hermione winced before lifting her teacup to her mouth and drinking deeply from it.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked, his eyes tracing over her face before coming to rest on the scarf around her neck. Hermine wondered if bruises had formed yet from where Dolohov had choked her that morning.

"I'm fine, Harry," she assured him. "I didn't come here to have you hunt him down. I came to apologize for being so distant, and to say that I'll try to be better. I didn't realize things had gotten so bad, but I'll do better, I promise."

Harry frowned at her for a long moment, but eventually he let the topic drop, seeming to sense that she didn't want to talk about it or think about it.

"Well, why don't we start by catching you up on all the gossip?" Ginny said. "How much are you aware of?"

"Uh…" Hermione frowned. "Last I heard Fleur announced she was pregnant and… um… Ron was… erm… being a slag."

Ginny stared at her for a full minute in silence and Hermione wondered if she'd said something wrong.

"Fleur is due to have the baby in a few weeks," Ginny told her. "And Ron is… seeing someone new. They're going steady."

Hermione's brow furrowed.

"Anyone I know?" she asked nonchalantly, accepting a biscuit when Harry produced a plate of them from the pantry. Hermione almost groaned at the flavor, realizing that Ginny had clearly inherited her mother's ability to cook delectable food.

"Um…" Ginny said, looking sideways at Harry.

"He's seeing Pansy Parkinson," Harry told her with a sigh and Hermione fought hard to hide her wince, sliding her hands from the kitchen counter to hide the way they clenched into fists.

"Oh, really?" she said, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably.

Pansy fucking Parkinson? Was he serious? Not only was the vile little bitch an evil whore, in Hermione's opinion, she was also the woman who'd driven such a wedge between her and Ron to begin with. The darling of the limelight thanks to the fashion line she'd launched, she was poised, elegant, rich, and a man-stealing bitch. Ron, in his pursuit of a career as a Quidditch star, had encountered her at many a mixer and fundraising event. It seemed Parkinson was rather fond of Quidditch, and the Canons had contracted her to design their new uniforms, among other things.

More than once when Hermione had attended alongside Ron, Pansy could be found at the center of attention, and even Ron had been drawn to her low-cut tops, her backless dresses and her vapid smile. Jealousy had festered within Hermione when, more than once, she'd seen Parkinson touching Ron's arm, flirting with him, and generally luring him away.

"I thought you knew, Hermione," Ginny said, and Hermione caught the way she gave a long-suffering sigh as though she was annoyed with Hermione for being hurt by the news.

"Apparently not," Hermione said, gritting her teeth on the urge to cry.

"Then what the hell else have you had to drink yourself into a stupor over, Hermione?" Ginny demanded, putting her hands on her hips. "If not over my idiot brother finding happiness with a woman you despise, then what the hell have you been necking whiskey every night for?"

Hermione recoiled, feeling like she'd been slapped and more than a little shocked by Ginny's venom.

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Maybe I've been a little hurt that my husband ran off and left me because he couldn't stand the sight of the scars that litter my body as a result of the war we fought together. Or, I know! Maybe it's the fact that ten years after the fucking fact, my Mum and Dad  _still_  refuse to speak to me thanks to the steps I took to keep them from being brutally murdered. Maybe getting divorced and having absolutely no family will do that to a person."

"No family?" Ginny hissed. "Hermione,  _we_  are your bloody family, but all you've done ever since you and Ron broke up is push all of us away. I wasn't kidding that it would have taken until your supervisor came by to ask if we'd seen you, and in truth, it'd have been a wasted visit because we  _haven't_  seen you in months. I think the last time you and I were in the same room, we were both riding the elevator at the Ministry and you were so absorbed in your own little world that you didn't even say hello to me! When I've tried to call on you at your flat, I find you've moved again, and not mentioned it to us. You're never around, you never contact us, and I'd honestly begun to think that you were so angry with Ron that you didn't want anything to do with any of us, since you weren't talking to me."

"And you didn't think that behavior was strange?" Hermione demanded, getting to her feet and glaring at the redhead. "You didn't stop to think, ' _Hmm, maybe something is up with Hermione since she hasn't even realized I'm in the same elevator as her'_? You didn't wonder  _why_  I keep moving house?"

"Why  _do_  you keep moving house?" Harry frowned at her. "The last time I tried to take you home, I ended up Flooing us both in on a muggle family of five that had moved into your Salisbury flat. We had to call the Obliviators to wipe their memories of the two of us stepping out of the fireplace like Father Christmas."

"I keep moving because someone keeps breaking in and moving my belongings. Of course, after last night, I know exactly who it is, and there's little point in moving again. He always finds me," Hermione said before a bitter laugh escaped her. "How sad that the only person in my life who cares enough to look in on me is the psychotic Death Eater who's been stalking me."

"What the hell are we supposed to do, Hermione? When we come by your work, you're too busy to see us, and you moved without telling us. The last ten owls I sent you came back, undelivered. When I see you out, you don't acknowledge me, even when I call out to you. You've been off inside your own head."

"I've been turning into a barely functioning alcoholic," Hermione corrected her. "Thanks for stepping in to help out with that, by the way. It was really nice today to find so much booze in my house. And let's not even discuss the puddles of dried vomit on the carpet and hidden under piles of dirty clothes. Thanks for stopping by to make sure I was eating right and not living on take-out and whiskey. Honestly, the only decent meal I've eaten, probably all year, was the home-cooked breakfast that a fucking Death Eater made for me this morning. Real great  _family_  I've got that things have come to this, huh?"

"Don't you dare stand there and try to blame us for your bad habits, Hermione!" Ginny hissed. "You got divorced, and that sucks, but you don't see Ron wallowing in filth, do you?"

"No, apparently he's crawling between the thighs of a vile, simpering whore and living the high life of riches and plenty. So nice to know he turned out to be a shallow fucking gold-digger, after all. I almost pity Parkinson. Eventually that pug-nosed face will wrinkle and that perfectly rounded arse will start to sag. I'll bet Ron will run off with some young pretty thing when that happens, and take half her fortune along with her best years, to boot."

"Could you be any bitterer?" Ginny sneered, never one to take criticism of her brothers well.

"Try this on for size," Hermione snarled. "Your brother left me because he didn't want to fuck me anymore. The pathetic bastard couldn't stand the sight of this scar on my chest."

She jerked up her shirt to reveal her midriff, noting as she did so that she had bruises in the shape of Dolohov's fingers littering her hips.

"He liked to make sure I had my 'Mudblood' arm shoved under the pillows and that he had me on my hands and knees so that he didn't have to look at the fucking scar I earned fighting off evil while he - absolute fucking moron that he is – was too busy being braindead and useless after grabbing something he shouldn't've. You want bitter? Why don't we talk about the fact that last night the man who put this fucking scar here was the first man in my life willing to look me in the eye while he fucked me!"

Ginny recoiled in horror, her eyes widening like she couldn't believe what Hermione had just said. Harry closed his own eyes in pained resignation to hear it confirmed.

"So, yeah, Ginny. Maybe I am a little bitter that Ron's run off with that bitch even after assuring me time and again that he wasn't interested in her. Maybe I'm still hurting that he fucking left me. Maybe I needed someone to barge their way into my life and pull me out of my depression before I ended up kidnapped and dragged off to some cabin in the fucking woods by Antonin fucking Dolohov because – get this – he  _knew_  that none of you would bother to come looking for me. He  _knew_  that he could've kept me there. Raped me. Tortured me. Killed me. None of you would've come to rescue me, would you? Why bother, right? Who needs to look in on the cast-off ex-wife their brother deserted to chase riches and fame between the legs of a woman who, ten years ago, wanted to hand Harry over to Voldemort to save her own fucking skin."

With that final expletive spat from between clenched teeth, Hermione spun on her heels and stormed out of the Potter's house. She couldn't help thinking as she left that maybe Dolohov had been right. Maybe she  _was_ going to find out a few more things that might drive her right back to his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

It took there days before Harry showed up at her office just before lunch, his hands on his hips and his brow furrowed into a fierce frown. She'd been ignoring the letters he'd been sending to her home, and she'd been collecting the interdepartmental memos he'd been shooting through to her in the office, stacking them in the top drawer of her desk and refusing to even bother reading them.

She knew what he wanted. He wasn't there to mend fences, she could tell. He'd come in his capacity as an Auror and intended to try to force her to report what had happened with Dolohov so that he could file additional allegations at the ex Death Eater to further the investigation and find him.

"Do you plan to ignore me forever?" Harry asked when she looked up briefly before lowering her head back to the paperwork she'd been slogging through. It seemed never-ending in her department. She worked in the small claims office, pushing through claims and processing investigations teams to look into reported cases where magical creatures caused damage to property or persons.

"What do you want, Harry?" Hermione asked tiredly. "I've got too much paperwork following that dragon incident in Glasgow to slog through, and not enough time to deal with you today if you've come here to tell me off for how I spoke to Ginny."

"I'm not here about that. Haven't you been reading my Memos?" Harry frowned at her.

"No," Hermione confessed. "I haven't. I don't have time."

"I need you to come to my office, Hermione," Harry said.

"Why?" she frowned, looking up at him.

"You know why," Harry told her, glancing around her office to note that the three other paper-pushers sharing her cramped office space were all listening avidly.

"I really don't have time, Harry," Hermione hedged.

"Make time," Harry bit out through gritted teeth. "You're currently in danger of catching an obstruction of justice charge because you're refusing to cooperate with me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes on him.

"Fine," she huffed. "I'll give you ten minutes."

She rose to her feet, stomping them back into her shoes before rounding her desk and stalking out of the office in front of him.

"You're still angry," Harry surmised when they reached the corridor and began to walk in the direction of his office across the building.

"You think?" Hermione asked over her shoulder. "Believe me, Harry, there's nothing quite like wading through the fog of depression to find that everyone you relied on – people you've sacrificed for – can't even be bothered to check on you to make sure you're still alive."

"I checked on you plenty, Hermione," Harry snapped. "When I could fucking find you. Maybe if you hadn't shut everyone out of your life, moving house without telling anyone, ducking owls, ignoring personal meetings and avoiding every family function, this wouldn't have happened."

Hermione spun on him, her hand cracking against his cheek hard enough that his glasses went flying off his nose and cracked on the marble floor of the hallway.

"Don't you  _dare_  blame me for being broken, Harry Potter," Hermione hissed, stepping into his personal space and glaring into his face angrily. "One of the biggest contributors to the state I'm in is knowing that my Mum and Dad despise me and are terrified of me because I wiped their memories to keep anyone from using them to hurt us during the war. I didn't have to do that. I could've turned my back on you and run for it like any sane person would've, but I valued our friendship and our cause. Don't your  _dare_  stand there and spit venom at me and blame me for the state I'm in when you've done less than nothing to help me!"

"Less than nothing?" Harry hissed. "Who do you think helps you home when you go out and get drunk in Diagon Alley after work, Hermione?"

"Not you," she sneered. "We both know that. The man who helps me home is the same one you've come to ask me questions about. Yeah, I know why you're here. You don't care that I'm struggling, or that I might never have come back if he hadn't let me go. You just want to get your next mark."

Harry seized hold of her shoulders and squeezed so tightly her arms ached, forcing her backwards until she hit the wall of the corridor.

"Don't you dare stand there hissing at me that I don't care about you, Hermione," Harry growled into her face. "More often than not, it's  _me_  who makes sure you get home safely. Not Dolohov."

"If that's true, then I should slap you all over again, Harry," Hermione hissed at him. "How could you let me live like that? There were mounds of dirty clothes, puddles of vomit… I was living in filth! If you really were the one taking me home so often, and you left the house in that state and didn't stay with me to make sure I didn't choke on my own vomit, then you'd have been better off leaving me wherever you found me!"

Harry shook her roughly, making her teeth crack together.

"You think I didn't try?" he spat. "Who do you think changed the sheets on your bed recently, Hermione? Who do you think is the one making sure there's enough food in the house for Crookshanks? I've cleaned your flat more times than I can count, but every time I return it's filthy all over again."

"And you didn't think to step in and make sure I was pulling myself together?" Hermione demanded, hot tears stinging her eyes that she fought to keep from overflowing.

"What was I supposed to do, Hermione? I helped you home and I cleaned you up when you made a mess of yourself. I carried you more than once when you drank yourself into a stupor. I tucked you into bed and tidied what I could. I tried to talk to you, but you always insisted that you were fine. That nothing was wrong. That you didn't need my help. If you spend every minute pushing someone away, how can you stand there surprised when eventually we pull away?"

Hermione glared at him.

"You have no concept of how depression works, even after all this time, do you?" she said sadly, shaking her head at him. "Even after seeing what Sirius went through and seeing what I'm going through, you have no clue that depressed people don't need you to leave them alone, no matter what they say or how vile they are about it. They need you to latch on and support them until they get themselves right. You didn't think to take me to St Mungo's and get me on anti-depressants?"

"I did do that!" Harry snapped. "You never took the potions. They're probably still in your bathroom cabinet. I don't know how else I could've helped, Hermione. I tried talking to you. We tried to include you in family events. I cleaned you up, tucked you in, tried to get you the help you needed. Short of moving in with you and forcing you to live normally again, there wasn't much else I could do."

"Well… why didn't you do that?" Hermione asked, frowning at him.

"Do what?" Harry frowned.

"Pack me up and force me to move in with you?" Hermione said. "If you thought it would've helped, why didn't you do it?"

"Because Ron is over at my place every other day, and every time you see him you spiral even further out of control," Harry told her. "One of the first things you learn about fighting depression is to minimalize the things that cause the sufferer to backslide. I can hardly just tell Ron to fuck off and not come 'round anymore. He's my brother-in-law, Hermione."

"And I'm nothing," Hermione said bitterly. "We're divorced, so I'm not your sister-in-law, anymore."

"You're the closest thing I've got to a sister, Hermione," Harry argued with her. "But I didn't think constant exposure would help you. And since you were still coming to work, most days, and seemed to be functioning despite the drinking, I didn't think you needed to move in with me."

"Ginny wouldn't allow it, more like," Hermione said bitterly.

"Ginny's been worried about you, too, Hermione," Harry argued.

"So worried that she blames me for being so pathetic."

Harry sighed.

"Nothing I say is going to make you feel any better right now, Hermione. Can we please just continue on to my office and have a nice cup of tea and talk about this? You're obviously very angry and the only way we're going to bridge this gap is by talking about it."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"You just want to question me about Dolohov's last known location," she said.

"I want to apprehend him, so he can't abduct you again, yes. He raped you, Hermione!" Harrys aid quietly. "Tell me where he is, and I'll arrest him for good. He'll be given the Dementor's Kiss and he'll never bother you again."

"He's the only reason I've dragged myself out of my funk," Hermione replied dully as Harry released her and summoned his glasses from the floor, mending them with a silent  _Repairo_. "And we made a bargain that I wouldn't reveal him – I wasn't supposed to tell anyone I'd ever seen him. In return, he let me go without hurting me and promised not to follow. So far, he's upheld his end."

"And if you tell me where he is, I can kill him and you'll never have to worry about him again," Harry said, looping his arm through hers and escorting her the remaining distance to his office.

Once they were inside it, he fixed them both a cup of tea and Hermione noted that, unlike Ginny, Harry was up to speed on the additives she preferred, these days.

"Harry, I don't doubt your skills as an Auror, but Dolohov is a ruthless monster. If I tell you where he is, you'll run at him, you'll get yourself killed, and then he'll come after me again, only this time he won't trust my word and he'll never let me go."

"You think he can outduel me?" Harry asked. "Hermione, I bested Voldemort."

"By sheer luck!" Hermione hissed. "If not for that business with the wands and their rightful owners, and an obscure bit of wandlore, you'd have died, Harry. Dolohov is not Voldemort. He is far, far worse because he won't be polite, or make a stupid speech about how inferior you are. He'll just fire a silent and deadly curse and your body will never be found before mine will go missing, too. Unlike with you, I expect he'll keep me alive a good long while before he kills me, and he'll partake in the joys of my flesh many times over before he grants me mercy."

"You think I would fail?" Harry frowned at her.

Hermione nodded, folding her arms over her chest.

"Hermione, if you don't report what he did, I cannot prosecute him for it. If you file this claim, I can pin him with rape, in addition to the many other charges laid against him."

He handed her a form and Hermione scanned it, noting that he'd already filled it out, she just had to sign it. A legal confession stating that Antonin Dolohov have kidnapped her and blackmailed her into sleeping with him under pain of death – something considered illegal due to the coercive nature of the incident.

"You would need to provide details of how he captured you, and where he took you," Harry said.

"He broke into my flat and placed an illegal portkey disguised as a whiskey bottle," Hermione told him. "Which is somewhere in the woods, Merlin only knows where, because that's where it took me before he pursued me on foot to the only hut for miles around with a light burning. He cornered me inside it and he bargained with me that he would release me afterward if I would willingly participate in sexual intercourse with him. I don't know where his hut is. The portkey dumped me a mile or more from it, and it was storming and dark."

"Could you apparate there again, if you had to?" Harry asked, frowning seriously while one of his quills added the details she'd mentioned of its own accord.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't," Hermione confessed. "I doubt I can."

"Hermione," Harry said, sounding frustrated.

"Now, I believe that my cooperation should have cleared me of any further allegations about obstructing justice," Hermione said, leaning back in her chair and interlocking her fingers. "Do you have anything else to say to me, or can I return to work?"

"If you know where he is, and you know he'll probably come after you again, why aren't your cooperating, Hermione?" Harry asked, looking frustrated.

"I don't want you to die," Hermione shrugged. "And I'm currently indebted to Dolohov, given that had he not abducted me, I'd likely have continued in my downward spiral until I crashed into rock bottom and took my own life. My friends had given up on me, and so I find myself relying on and indebted to my stalker. At least he cares if I live or die."

"Yeah, because he wants to kill you," Harry said hotly, clearly not liking her allegations.

"Actually, if he'd simply wanted to kill me, Harry, he'd have done it by now. I'm assured that he has had ample opportunities," Hermione said.

"He raped you," Harry hissed.

"He's in love with me," Hermione shrugged her shoulders.

Harry's eyes widened in shock at her blasé tone.

"Hermione…." Harry frowned.

"It's the truth," Hermione told him. "At least, I think it is. His bargain to let me go was that I had to shag him without fighting him off or calling for help or just laying there, numb. He wanted me to feel, Harry. He wanted me to enjoy it. Rape, statistically, is most often about power. He didn't want to take my power. He just wanted to make me feel good. He wanted me to like it. He wanted to fuck me while I moaned for him and reached for him and begged for more so that he'd have something to add to his twisted delusion of loving me, Harry. I expect that, in time, he'll convince himself the feeling is mutual."

"And when he does, he'll come after you, again," Harry warned.

"Probably," Hermione nodded.

"I can't afford the resources to have someone tail you until he pops up again, Hermione. If you don't tell me where he is, I can't protect you."

Hermione's smile, when it flashed, was bitter and self-deprecating.

"Don't worry, Harry," she said as she rose to her feet. "I'm more than capable of protecting myself. I have no one else, after all."

With that said, she turned on her heel and walked out of the office, noting as she did so that there was a picture of Dolohov's estate spell-o-taped to the wall beside a dated photo of the Death Eater. She couldn't help noticing the name of the realtor listing the property and despite her best efforts to distance herself from anything Dolohov related, as she returned to her office to continue with her paperwork, Hermione found her mind often darting back to the photograph and the mention Dolohov had made of his mother still haunting the property.


	5. Chapter 5

Antonin waited almost two weeks, until he couldn't take the separation another second. True to his word, he'd let her go and hadn't followed her. And every second had been like torture as he wondered what she was thinking about; what she was doing. That morning when he awoke in his bed, breathing in the scent of her skin that still lingered on the sheets he'd been loath to wash since she'd left, Antonin knew he couldn't go another day without seeing her.

For all he knew, she'd probably have moved to a new flat, again, and he'd have his work cut out for him to locate her this time, since she knew it was him who'd been stalking her. He hoped she hadn't gone too far. He didn't think he could take the wait of having to hunt her down without ending the hunt by claiming her all over again when he finally found her. Stretching languidly, Antonin spent the first few minutes of the morning recalling the breathy sighs and contented little moans she'd emitted when he'd had her right there in his bed.

He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, once more, and Antonin resolved that he  _would_  have her again. He'd scared her when he'd lost her temper, but by the time she'd left, she had begged him to fuck her and he'd done so gratefully. Merlin, he wanted to taste her sweet cunt again. He'd been going mad these past two weeks with his self-imposed exile from her company. Not having seen her, even once, during that time had almost driven him spare, but that would change today.

Rolling out of bed, he searched the cabin with his eyes, looking for something to wear that might help him to blend in. The best place to start search for her would be the Ministry. She'd be at work this morning, he was sure, and while it was dangerous to lurk so close within the reach of the Aurors who still sought to capture him, he knew that the fastest way to find out where she lived now would be to follow her home tonight. Merlin, maybe if he got there early enough this morning, he might even be able to steal a few minutes with her.

He needed to see her. He'd been going out of his head wondering if she'd been thinking about their night together. He needed to know what she'd done after she'd left his cabin. Had she run to the authorities? It seemed unlikely, given his continued freedom and the undisturbed state of his cabin these past two weeks. Perhaps she'd simply run. She might've packed up all of her things and fled the country. He hoped not. It wouldn't be easy to track her on a different continent, though he would, of course, eventually track her down again. Until the day he died, he could go out of his way to find his witch.

Part of him knew that line of thinking was a bit psychotic. A small part of him acknowledged that his obsession with this witch was beyond unhealthy, and he wondered what his mother would say if she could see him pining over a mudblood. Merlin, he sighed as he ran a hand through his messy hair and noted that it needed a trim, he supposed it was high time he dropped in on his mother, too. With the Aurors circling and trying to sell of his house, the last thing he needed was his mother being captured in the house, living there illegally, given that she hadn't a visa and had never transferred her citizenship from Russia. Then again, the bastards at the prison wouldn't know what hit them when that five-foot bag of bones went on the attack and proved that he didn't get his nasty curse-inventing habit from his Papa.

Antonin smirked a little to himself as he dressed smartly enough to pass as a Ministry employee. He would swing by her office first, and if she wasn't in yet, he would take a stroll through muggle London, get his hair cut, and maybe have his beard tidied up a bit before returning later when she was more likely to be in the office. He wondered how she'd been doing without him following her around. She hadn't known he'd been there, ninety-nine percent of the time, but he hoped she hadn't still been going out and drinking herself silly every night over that bloody ginger bastard. He might have to kill the  _mudak_  just for upsetting his witch, Antonin mused to himself as he Disapparated for the Ministry.

He didn't bother with any kind of disguise. He'd found he didn't need one. With his hair properly combed and his beard in some semblance of order, not to mention being dressed in respectable clothing like any other sod who worked in the Ministry, he blended right in. He couldn't even count the number of times he'd strolled by Aurors as he traversed the Ministry, smiling and nodding at most of them, just daring them to recognize him.

They never did.

And why should they? It'd been ten years since the war, and he looked nothing like he'd done when they'd dragged him to Azkaban the first time. The many years he'd spent in incarceration, coupled with age and time had changed his looks enough that most of the Aurors had no clue what he looked like, anymore. The younger ones didn't even know he existed, he reckoned, but for the horror stories they might tell of the murders he'd committed. The only one he ever took care to steer clear of was Potter, since the bastard was still leading the case to try and hunt him down – not that he was having a lot of luck.

If he were anyone else, he'd have had strips torn off his hide for not getting the job done, but he was Saint bloody Potter, the Boy Who Never Learned How to Die and as such they kept him in his position as Head Auror. Antonin shook his head to himself, stopping by the tea cart on his way into the office and paying the lovely old crone for a hot strong coffee for himself and an unsweetened peppermint tea for Granger.

He reckoned he might even be early enough that she'd be just one her way in and the rest of her colleagues wouldn't be in for another hour yet. His witch worked entirely too hard for his liking, if he was being honest and Antonin wondered just what strings he might have to pull to ensure she stopped being such a workaholic. The more time she spent at her flat, the more chances he'd have to get her alone for a bit of uninterrupted pleasure, by his reckoning.

When he strolled into the small claims office of the DRCMC he noticed that the lights weren't even on yet, and Antonin frowned, knowing she was usually in by now. Bloody hell, if she'd quit her job before up and leaving the country, he'd kill someone. Before he could go searching, he heard a telltale sigh that he'd come to recognize as the sound she made when she was still mostly asleep, likely a bit hungover, and trying to rally herself into facing the day.

Smirking a little to himself, he twitched his nose at the door into the office, pleased when he managed to wandlessly and wordlessly close and lock it since he had his hands full. Hermione didn't look up from her desk and Antonin took his sweet time strolling over to her. Ordinarily he might've disillusioned himself and slipped the cup of tea onto her desk when she was distracted. When he moved closer to the desk, however, and saw that she was moodily eyeing an enormous stack of paper work – new recompense claims for some new creature related mess – Antonin decided that maybe there was no point hiding from her, anymore. She knew he'd been stalking her, after all, and she'd fucked him.

Maybe he'd have better luck at winning her trust and luring her back into bed with him if he stopped skulking around in the shadows and started more openly pursuing her.

She didn't look up when he rounded the partition of her cubicle and slid her mug onto her desk, though she reached for the steaming beverage automatically, lifting it to her lips and drinking deeply without bothering to check and see if it was poisoned. Antonin shook his head, supposing she must be very tired today, since she'd taken to always checking her drinks in the months before he'd abducted her as she grew steadily more paranoid thanks to his interference in her life.

"Mmmm," she hummed, sighing and closing her eyes as she swallowed the first mouthful of her tea.

"Tasty?" he asked quietly, rounding her desk to stand behind her chair and lean against one of her filing cabinets.

She gasped in surprise at being spoken, inhaling her next mouthful down the wrong pipe and she spun with her wand trained on him, apparently shocked to find him in her presence. Her face turned steadily red as she choked on her tea and Antonin frowned at her before stepping forward and reaching for her. She aimed her wand at him, but Antonin ignored the weapon to trace the tip of his index finger up the length of her throat, muttering a clearing spell that had her coughing up the liquid she was choking on.

She frowned at him, gasping and making to wipe her mouth before he offered her his handkerchief.

"Dolohov?" she asked guardedly, surprising him when she took the handkerchief and wiped her chin.

" _Dobroye utro_ ,  _solnyshko,"_  he greeted her, his lips twitching a little as he drank in the sight of her and noticed that she looked healthier than she'd done in a good long while.

Her curly hair was freshly washed, still damp as though she'd showered just that morning and the dark circles under her eyes had lessened so that they were almost invisible.

"What are you doing here?" she asked warily, frowning fiercely. "We had a deal, Dolohov."

"I know," Antonin nodded. "But I couldn't stay away any longer."

She scowled at him.

"What are you doing in my office?" she said. "Did you bring me this?"

She held up the tea indicatively.

" _Da_ ," he nodded, tipping his head a little to one side as he watched her, a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. She looked better rested than he could remember her being in a long time, and by the looks of her, she was fit for a fight, should he want one.

"You bring them every day… don't you?" she asked, frowning at the cup suddenly. "I haven't had one in two weeks and I thought the elves had forgotten about me… but it's because of you."

Antonin only smiled, not knowing if she actually wanted him to respond and feeling a little out his depth. He didn't usually speak to her so directly. Usually he just lurked in the shadows and watched her without saying a word or uttering a single sound.

"How did you get in here?" she wanted to know. "You're not even disguised. And where did you get the tea? You didn't steal it, did you?"

Antonin frowned at her.

"I paid for the tea. Rhonda, the tea-cart crone, is very fond of me. Every morning she tells me the gossip of the day."

"You interact with Rhonda?" her eyed widened. "As yourself? Are you  _trying_  to get yourself arrested, Dolohov? Is that why you kidnapped me and then let me go?"

"You think I would want to return to Azkaban when being free to pursue you is so much more enjoyable?" he asked.

"You must if you're wandering about the Ministry without an Invisibility Cloak or a Disillusionment charm," she retorted.

"Worried for me,  _mishka_?" Antonin smirked.

"No," she said meanly. "Go ahead, walk around and get caught for all I care."

"You didn't report me?" Antonin said, eyeing her with intrigue and tracing his eyes from her face and down her petite frame, enjoying the suggestive cut of her neckline and the way the very top curve of the purple starburst scar he'd left upon her was visible if he leaned the right way.

"You had been upholding your end," she replied evenly, her eyes darting from his face to the door as though contemplating whether she could escape out of it before he could catch her. "Of course, since you're here, and so boldly walking around, I suppose I'd best trot off to the Auror's office."

"Do I frighten you,  _dorogaya_?" Antonin teased, not at all concerned by her threats, they could hardly hunt him any harder than they already were.

"Yes," she admitted quietly, attempting to edge her chair away from him. Not that it did her any good, given that she worked in a cubicle and she had nowhere else to go.

Antonin frowned at the confession, not liking the idea that his witch feared him. And she didn't know it yet, but she was  _his_  witch.

"If that is true, why did you not go to the Aurors,  _zaichik_?"

Hermione shook her head and Antonin noticed the way her eyes shifted. He narrowed his eyes on her, wondering if maybe she'd gone to them after all.

"Did you?" he asked in a low voice, noting the way she kept her wand trained on him and the way her eyes widened.

"Dolohov…" she began, looking like she knew she was in trouble.

He had his wand in his hand and a shield erected before she fired the Stunning spell. It bounced off his shield and struck a stack of papers on her desk, scattering them in such a way that she actually groaned in frustration. Before she could recover from her surprise that he'd drawn his wand so fast, Antonin lunged for her, abandoning his coffee atop her filing cabinet and latching onto the arms of her ergonomic work chair, caging her into the seat and looming over her menacingly. He disarmed her before she could fire on him again, and she snarled a colourful expletive that might've amused him at any other moment.

"Who did you tell?" he demanded, his face pressed close to hers when she leaned back in horror while he invaded her space, glaring at her angrily.

"Harry," she confessed without prompting. "I… he doesn't know where to find you. He just knows that you kidnapped me… and about our bargain."

" _Grebanyy ad_!" Antonin snarled furiously, his eyes narrowed angrily while he tried to cool his temper enough to keep from injuring her.

He'd been telling himself since he let her go that he would curb his foul temper where she was concerned and that he would never lay a cruel hand on her again, but by the Gods, it was hard!

"Why?" he demanded. "When did you tell him?"

"I…." she gulped, shaking her head and cringing back even further in fear. "When I got home… I saw how badly I'd been living… you were right about the whiskey and candy diet, and about what I had in my pantry… I realized that I'd been avoiding my friends, since you didn't think they'd have looked for me. I went by to make amends and they had questions about what shocked me out of my depression."

"When was this?" he growled, darting a look toward the door to make certain no one was trying to get into the office yet. The last thing he needed was one of her colleagues reporting that he'd been there, looming over her and threatening her.

"The same day that I left your cottage," Granger whispered. "I went home, and I washed and then I cleaned my flat and bought real food, again, and went to see Harry and Ginny."

" _Der'mo!"_ Antonin snarled, shoving back from her chair and stepping back across her small cubicle, giving her space, lest he do something foolish. "He has not come for me?"

"We had a fight," Granger offered. "I might've lost my temper when Ginny was insensitive about my reaction to learning that Ron is dating Parkinson. She got stroppy with me and I ripped her a new one about how maybe if she'd been a better friend, I wouldn't have been abducted and raped, and then I left. Harry came by three days later when I ignored all of his owls and memos."

"I didn't rape you,  _dorogaya_ ," Antonin said, his eyes darting to her face. "You agreed. You wanted it. You said you wanted it."

"Being blackmailed into agreeing doesn't supplement true consent, Dolohov," she replied coldly. "Had I argued with your suggestion, you'd have been rough and hurt me, and probably never let me go. I had no choice but to agree if I wanted to get out of there alive."

She flinched back in surprise when he put his fist through the wall at the back of her cubicle.

"You begged me to fuck you before you left, Granger," Antonin hissed. " _Fuck me like you love me_ , you said!"

"I'm talking about the first time," she said, narrowing her eyes when she watched him open and close his now-bloodied fist before eyeing the hole he'd made in the wall with no small amount of scornful disgust. Antonin  _almost_  regretted doing it from that look alone, before reminding himself that he wasn't just some sniveling git who'd do every little thing he could to please his witch.

"The first time, you agreed to the terms. You didn't have to. You could have tried to run."

"You'd have hexed me in the back, had I managed to make it out the door," Granger argued.

"You are a witch. You could have defended yourself," he shrugged.

"You took my wand!" she snapped.

"I  _found_  your wand.  _You_  dropped it in the woods when you were running from me."

"While you were a  _bear!_ " she hissed. "I was a little preoccupied thinking I was going to be mauled."

"Had I been a real bear, you'd have been able to use your wand to protect yourself, and yet you did not even think to draw it on me, only to run. You are forgetting you are a witch, Granger," Antonin sneered. "Even now you have let me take your wand and done nothing to take it back. Where is your spirit? Where is the girl who hexed me and wiped my memory in that coffee shop? Where is the stubborn, stupid girl who fought back and survived my curse in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Dead," Granger retorted, narrowing her eyes on him even as she rose to her feet. "Dead and buried under a sea of liquor and hurt feelings because the hideous scar you left on my chest drove my husband into the arms of another woman."

"Better that than having me kill him, no?" Antonin asked, lunging for her again and catching the back of her neck as he invaded her space once more. "Had he not already been on his way out, I'd have killed him before things could progress between you any further, Granger."

"What are you saying?" she demanded.

"I'm saying the only reason he managed to marry you without my interference is because at the time of your wedding I was abroad and deep underground, hiding from the Aurors in the aftermath of the war," Antonin informed her.

"You'd have stopped my wedding?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"I sabotaged your marriage," he replied.

"You sent Parkinson after Ron?" she hissed, shoving her hands against his chest angrily to try and force some distance between them.

"I didn't have to," he shook his head. "But I dosed him for almost a year with Repugnance potion spiked with strands of your hair to keep him from wanting to fuck you. His distaste at the sight of your scars did the rest."

"You… you… bastard!" she snarled, and Antonin's cheek stung, his head spinning a little when she struck him across the face as hard as she could.

Antonin blinked dazedly for a moment, reaching a hand to touch his jaw, wriggling it a little to alleviate the ache from the strength of her blow.

"For such a little witch, you pack quite the punch,  _kotyonok_ ," he said with begrudging pride.

She walloped him again, this time in the chest and Antonin laughed a little.

"You absolute fucking bastard!" she spat. "I hate you! I hate you so much I could just… urgh!"

She reached up and wrapped her hands around his throat, squeezing down as tightly as she could, and Antonin couldn't hold back the fond smirk that slipped across his face. She certainly wasn't big enough or strong enough to choke him with her bare hands. Not whilst standing when she barely reached his chin.

" _Ty zabavanaya shtuchka, mishka,"_  he murmured to her, the hand he still had curled around the back of her neck delving into her loose curls as he tilted her head up more.

"Don't croon to me in Russian when I'm trying to murder you, you bastard!" she snapped, squeezing his throat a little tighter and barely doing more than slightly irritating his ability to draw breath.

"Are you so devastated with him,  _lapochka_?" he asked, frowning at her a little. "He was hardly good for you. You hated being dragged to Quidditch games, and endless talk of the sport. He always rolled his eyes when you had a more intelligent discussion topic to offer. Were you so happy with him?"

"I drank myself into a stupor for a year when he divorced me," she spat, releasing his throat and thumping her fists against his chest when she realized she wasn't achieving much more than leaving faint red marks on his skin.

"Because you are lonely, and you miss your parents," Antonin told her. "Not because you miss your husband. You drink because you think that you have failed. You imagine life if a series of tests, and you failed the marriage test because you could not hold onto your husband. But is it really failure to lose something that was holding you back and bringing you down?"

"Ron wasn't holding me back," she said stubbornly, shoving at his chest again like she imagined she would be able to push him away when he'd spent the past fortnight daydreaming about having her in his arms again.

"He was," Antonin assured her. "You are made for bigger things that being some benchwarmer's wife,  _zaika."_

"You only say that because you are mentally unbalanced and believe you would be a better suitor for me," she snapped, giving up on trying to shove him away and instead trying to untangle his hands from her hair.

"I  _am_  a better suitor for you, Hermione," he told her seriously.

"You're a murderer!" she argued.

"I'm an accomplished Curse Breaker with more knowledge about magic than your ex-husband could poke his broomstick at," he retorted. "I could enthrall you with intelligent conversation until you dropped into exhaustion, but you refuse to see it because you cannot see past my crimes."

Antonin looked away, frustrated when he saw the way her eyes widened in surprise at his words. He released his hold on her when she narrowed her eyes at him all over again.

"Your crimes include the murder of three people I dearly loved, Dolohov," she said coldly. "Can't you see that there will never be anything concrete between us after that?"

Antonin looked back at her and he could feel his temper fizzing in the back of his skull at her dismissal. She was shaking her head, looking both baffled and somewhat pitying as she eyed him.

"I don't know what horrible things you've endured to have become so infatuated with me, Antonin," she said quietly, and Antonin flinched at the sound of his first name slipping off her tongue in that almost patronizing tone. "I can only image the terrible state of your mind that you've latched onto me like I'm some… some… shining light worth chasing. I'm nothing special, Dolohov. I'm frizzy, and depressed, and angry at the way things have turned out for my life. I have a drinking problem, and no social life to speak of. I'm flattered, Antonin, I really am even if you do terrify me as much as you flatter me. But surely you can recognize that there is no future here? You are a wanted criminal. If you're ever caught, you'll be dragged off the Azkaban again, or you'll be given the Dementor's Kiss. My closest friends are those whom you have robbed of their loved ones. You robbed Molly of her brothers, Gideon and Fabian Prewet, and you robbed her children of their Uncles. You fired the curse that caused that wall to fall on Fred, taking another of Molly's family members away. You killed Remus and Tonks…. Do you imagine some fantasy where I take you along as my significant other to family lunches with my friends? As though they wouldn't all look at me like I'd gone mental?"

She stopped speaking when Antonin's hand shot up to wrap around her delicate neck, his face twisted with hatred.

"I killed those I had to in order to keep myself alive!" he snarled into her face, rage pounding through his skull and making him crazy. "I did what I had to, so I could save my own skin. Don't you  _dare_  stand there and patronize me for it when you've got a few kills under your belt too,  _mishka_. You threw the curse that brought Rodolphus off his broom and got him killed –  _you_  hunted him down like a dog. Those I killed were killed in the heat of battle where it was me or them. Had it been them who'd lived and me who'd died, you wouldn't be holding it against them. You'd offer them comfort and say it was self-defense, but you cannot fathom doing so for me, can you?"

"You're a Death Eater!" she argued.

" _Blyad'!"_  Antonin snarled. "Yes, Granger, I'm a  _proklyatiye_  Death Eater. I took the mark when I was young and stupid, and I confess, I liked the work. I  _believed_  that mudbloods were inferior. I'd been raised on the bread and butter of blood prejudice and had not bothered to educate myself beyond what my parents had taught me and what my friends at Durmstrang believed."

"Durmstrang?" she interrupted before he could continue to explain to her that fourteen years sitting in a prison cell was more than enough time to figure out that he'd been a  _durachit'_.

" _Da_?" Antonin frowned at her, surprised out of his rant. " _Chto?"_

"You went to Durmstrang?" she asked, her brow furrowed as she eyed him even though he was still gripping her throat. Antonin scowled when he realized, though he didn't think he held tight enough to hurt her. Loosening his grip until his fingers just barely collared her neck, he brushed his fingertips over her warm skin slowly.

" _Da_ ," Antonin nodded. "I am Russian. Where else would I go?"

"I thought you went to Hogwarts. You said you had an estate in Britain, and that you hadn't lived there since you were in your twenties," she said.

Antonin smiled a little, shaking his head.

"My Papa moved us to England when I was fourteen," Antonin told her, tracing his eyes over her face and wondering if perhaps she was more intrigued that she'd let on if she could remember so many things he'd said during their last encounter. "I was already enrolled and had been attending Durmstrang for several years by that time, and Papa did not approve of Dumbledore's muggle-loving ways."

"Oh," she said. "Was Karkaroff the Headmaster when you were there."

Antonin laughed, a low, almost bitter sound that even to his own ears, rang with unhappiness.

"Igor Karkaroff was my classmate and my friend, until I was arrested, and he did everything he could to worm his way out of trouble by ratting out the other Death Eaters. It is because of him that I was given a life sentence at the end of the first war."

She nodded her head slowly as though that made sense to her and she could understand why he would sound angry about that.

"Just the same," she said quietly. "There can be no… future here, Antonin."

Antonin narrowed his eyes on her.

"Says who?" he challenged.

"Says me," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "What do you really expect can come of this? Even if I could come around to your way of thinking that you killed the people I cared about in self-defense – which is a big ask on its own when I know what you're capable of – what are you hoping to get out of this?"

"Get out of it?" Antonin asked, raising his eyebrows at her in confusion and trying to figure out what she was asking of him.

"What do you want?" she clarified.

Antonin shrugged.

"You," he answered simply. "I want you, Hermione."

She blinked as though such a bold statement wasn't something she was accustomed to.

"In what capacity?" she asked quietly. "You've already shagged me, Antonin. What more do you want? You want to figure out how I survived your curse? You want to hurt me? You want to watch me lose my mind as you torture me into madness?"

Antonin scowled at the question, knowing he didn't have an answer. If he knew what he wanted from her, he'd have it by now. The trouble was, he didn't know what he wanted, other than that he wanted her. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to kiss her and hold her. He wanted to watch her rage at him. He wanted to teach her everything he knew about magic. He wanted better for her than this dead-end job in the bowels of the Ministry that was taking her nowhere and sucking the life out of her. He wanted to wake up next to her in the mornings, and he wanted to go to bed beside her at night. He wanted to watch her grow heavy with his children, and he wanted to watch those dark circles under her eyes disappear.

He wanted her to carry his last name, and he wanted her to wear his ring so that no one else would ever try to take her from him.

But he couldn't tell her any of those things. She was afraid of him. She would tell him he was out of his mind. She would remind him of the infinite list of reasons that they could never be together as he wished, beginning with his being a wanted criminal with no job, no home, and no prospects of giving her the things she deserved in life.

"Well?" she prompted when he didn't have an answer for her.

Antonin sighed, tracing his eyes over her pretty face and loathing the madness in him that reminded him that no sane, pretty, clever girl like her would ever go for someone like him. He might've had a chance had he not become a Death Eater. Had he remained a respected Curse Breaker, his age comparative to hers might not have mattered and he might've lured her into marrying him. But he was twenty-three years her senior, a criminal, an escaped felon.

"You are not ready to know that,  _solnyshko_ ," he murmured to her softly, trailing his fingertips up her neck and across her cheek adoring.

"Do you imagine there will be a time when I am?" she asked, and Antonin took hope from the fact that she didn't pull away from his touch.

"Maybe," he nodded, his eyes lowering to her lips as he recalled the taste and feel of them against his own. "Tell me,  _kotyonok_ , would you ever leave this place?"

"The Ministry?" she asked, raising her eyebrows and seeming shocked at the question.

"The country," Antonin clarified.

She opened her mouth in surprise, blinking at him like she was trying to figure out where the question had come from.

"Like on a holiday?" she frowned at him.

"Forever," he shook his head. "Would you ever relocate for work or pleasure,  _Zvyozdochka_?"

"With you?" she asked in a small voice, her brow furrowing all over again.

Antonin shrugged.

"Erm… maybe?" she shrugged her shoulders. "For work, perhaps. My Mum and Dad are still in England, and my friends are all here…"

Antonin nodded slowly, tipping his head to one side as he regarded her. The sound of someone jiggling the doorknob and trying to get into the office interrupted him before he could say more, though he could sense her curiosity.

"I must go," he announced, frowning at the door before sliding a hand into Hermione's hair and tipping her lips up to meet his.

She made a noise of protest, gasping a little in surprise and Antonin took full advantage of the way her lip parted, his tongue diving in to tangle with hers. Merlin's beard, but he'd missed the taste of her lips. Looping his free hand around her back and pulling her closer until she was molded against her chest, Antonin thought very seriously about Disapparating the pair of them to his cottage so he could have his way with her all over again. He resisted only because he didn't need Potter hunting him down, and because he wanted the next time she came to his cottage to be because she wanted to.

Despite the way she shoved her hands against his chest, she kissed him back hotly and Antonin almost groaned with how badly he wanted to turn her in his hold, bend her over her desk, and ravish her senseless. The sound of the person outside the door beginning to curse and trying to use their wand to unlock it broke them apart and Antonin smirked wickedly at his witch when she pulled away from him, gasping for breath and looking like she didn't know if she wanted to hex him or hump him.

" _Uvidimsya_ ,  _Zaika_ ," he murmured as he stepped back from her.

"Wait…" she said as he flicked his wand at the door of the office, unlocking it once more. Antonin paused, raising one eyebrow at her. "What's your mother's name?"

Surprised, but hoping this might mean she wanted to know more about him, Antonin grinned.

"Levka," he supplied. "Levka Dolohov."

Hermione nodded, and before she could ask him anything else, Antonin turned on the spot and Disapparated with a sharp crack just in time for her colleagues to burst through the door.

* * *

**Translations**

* * *

_Mudak -_ Asshole

_Dobroye utro_ ,  _solnyshko -_ Good Morning, little sun

_Da_  - Yes

_Mishka_  - little mouse

_Dorogaya_  - Darling

_Zaichik/Zaika -_ little bunny

_Grebanyy ad -_ Fucking hell

_Der'mo -_ Shit

_Kotyonok -_ kitten

_Ty zabavanaya shtuchka, mishka -_ you are a funny little thing, little mouse

_lapochka -_ honey/ sweetie pie

_Blyad -_ damn/fuck

_proklyatiye -_ cursed

_durachit' -_ Fool

_Chto_  - What?

_Zvyozdochka -_ little star

_Uvidimsya -_ See you later


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione Granger slumped backward into her office chair, her lips tingling and her mind buzzing with questions that needed answers. How dare he just show up unannounced at her office? He'd kissed her! He'd evaded her questions about what he wanted from her and he'd asked if she might ever live abroad. Merlin's little green apples, she wanted answers and it took more out of her than she thought possible to remain in her office as her colleagues began trickling in.

"Morning, Granger," Thomas Willoughby greeted her. "Any reason you locked the door this morning?"

"Hmmm?" Hermine hummed, swiveling in her office chair to look at the elderly gentleman. "Oh. I got in very early this morning and I was finishing off some important files. I didn't want to risk being too distracted to notice if any clients showed up."

"Right," Willoughby nodded, frowning at her for a moment. "Good thinking, that. Well then. Best get to it, eh? On the double!"

Hermione smiled a little to herself, rather fond of the old man who reminded her of an elderly Colonel with a big droopy moustache and his funny old sayings. The other colleagues she shared her small office with were just as eccentric and as she watched Sandra, Jane, and Henry arrive, Hermione couldn't help noticing that they all had one rather depressing thing in common. They were all much older than her, and they all looked a bit like the souls the world forgot. Thomas always dressed immaculately, enforcing the notions of a soldier's regiment. The others, however, looked… well… they looked as though they dressed for a life spent shut away in a cubicle where they didn't have to see anyone and so it didn't matter if they wore mismatch socks, frumpy jumpers, or rumpled pants to work.

"Everything alright, Hermione?" Sandra asked quietly, the witch in her mid to late fifties, at least, with a kind smile.

"Just fine," Hermione nodded, smiling a little at the other woman and wondering if maybe Dolohov had meant to imply that she was far to young to be spending her life buried under useless claims that piled up because so many people within the wizarding world had nothing better to do than to make up claims about magical creature disturbances to try and swindle the Ministry out of some money.

Maybe she  _should_  consider pursuing a career abroad. She could just imagine what he might want her to travel abroad for, and Hermione shook her head at herself, scrubbing her hand over her mouth to rid her lips of their tingling before she turned back to the stacks of paperwork on her desk and got back to work.

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

"Good Afternoon, Ma'am. Can I help you?" the office administrator at the Real Estate office asked when Hermione pushed open the door and made her way inside.

Hermione smiled politely.

"Can I speak with Reginald Cobblestone, please," Hermione asked of the young witch behind the desk.

"Let me just grab him," the admin smiled. "Would you like to take a seat while you wait, Miss Granger?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I might peruse the listings, thank you."

She didn't bother asking how the girl knew her. She had probably been at Hogwarts with Hermione. One of the younger students, she suspected. Of course, maybe the girl knew her from the newspapers. They wrote about her and snapped pictures of her often enough that it was hard for anyone in their world who read the newspaper to keep from learning the name of the notorious Hermione Granger. She expected half the wizarding world knew about her divorce with Ron. The other half probably knew she'd turned into a drunkard since then, too.

Sighing, Hermione traced her eyes over the houses on the market that were plastered on the walls. She'd come, of course, with one very specific house in mind and she rather hated herself for her curiosity, but for weeks now she'd been wondering about Dolohov's estate. She didn't know why it mattered to her, but she felt the strangest urge to see it.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he knew so much about her after ten years of stalking her, whilst he was practically a stranger.

"Miss Granger, how can I help you?" Reginald Cobblestone asked, strolling into the room behind the admin and offering Hermione his hand in greeting.

"I'd like to see the listing for this estate, please," Hermione said, pointing to the picture on the wall that she recognized from Harry's office as belonging to Dolohov.

"Is that right?" Cobblestone asked, looking surprised.

"Yes," Hermione smiled. "I've been thinking for a time now that I'd like a property with a little bit of land; something outside the hustle and bustle of London, you know?"

Cobblestone frowned at her.

"Why don't we discuss it in my office, Miss Granger. There are a few particulars about this estate that you might wish to be made aware of before arranging a viewing."

"Lovely," Hermione smiled, though she didn't so much care about particulars as she did about actually seeing the property and finding out if Dolohov's mother still actually lived there in secret.

Cobblestone lead her down a narrow corridor and into a simple office.

"Now then," he said. "Here's the file on the estate. Be sure to read it very carefully, Miss Granger. I'm afraid it hasn't been easy trying to make a sale on that particular place."

"It's haunted," Hermione guessed.

"Mmmm," Cobblestone nodded. "By the particularly nasty poltergeist of a crotchety old Russian woman who hurls abuse and pulls tricks like there's no tomorrow."

"Can she be dismissed?" Hermione asked. "I was under the impression that ghosts and poltergeists needed permission to haunt locations."

"Aye, well, you'd know, wouldn't you," Cobblestone said, apparently aware of her career choice. "But no. She can't be dismissed without a signed contract from the property owner, and unfortunately in this case, the property owner is a wanted criminal on the run from the MLE. Hasn't been seen in years."

"How do you intend to sell off the property without permission of the owner, then?" Hermione frowned. "I wasn't aware there were laws that deprived felons of their ownership rights just because they are convicts."

"In this instance the felon has been sentenced to life in prison – the Dementor's Kiss if he's ever caught after breaking out of Azkaban during the war – and the MLE got it through the Wizengamot that they be allowed to sell the property to cover reparation costs of the man-hunt to track this bloke down."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to take the gold from his bank vault to cover such charges?" Hermione frowned.

"Might do," Cobblestone nodded. "But the Goblins at Gringotts won't cooperate. The felon in question was a Gringott's Curse Breaker before he was convicted at the end of the first war and they're a loyal bunch, the goblins."

"How is it that the MLE got the deed to his property but not his gold?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Don't rightly know, Miss," Cobblestone shrugged.

"If they have the deed, can't they sign the dismissal form the poltergeist?" she asked.

"Aye, well, they tried. Didn't work, see?" Cobblestone scratched his beard idly as he watched her read over the particulars about the estate.

Hermione wondered what the Dolohov family had ever needed a ten-bedroom, five-bathroom estate on two hundred acres of woodland for.

"Didn't work?" Hermione frowned.

"The poltergeist is said to have snatched the dismissal notice right out of Head Auror Potter's hands and shredded it in front of him before pelting him with owl pellets until he fled," Cobblestone said. "Reckoned it might be something to do with not being rightful owner of the property and all that. If you were to buy the place, you'd be able to dismiss her after you moved in – Potter said something about habitation requirements to meet the ordinance for dismissal – but you'd have to put up with her for a time before the spells would take effect for you as owner."

Hermione nodded.

"And I don't suppose this Curse Breaker left his home unguarded or poorly warded?" Hermione said.

"You'd be right, Miss," Cobblestone chuckled. "A lot of 'em have worn down over time. He was in prison from the end of the first war until 1995, but there are certainly still a number of nasty curses on certain parts of the house. Can't get into the basement, no matter how hard we try, and three of the bedrooms in the house are inaccessible thanks to the warding."

"Only three?" Hermione frowned.

"Aye," Cobblestone said. "The Master bedroom and two guest rooms are all sealed shut and we can't get them open."

"I see," Hermione nodded. "And I suppose the price of the property reflects that, does it?"

Cobblestone scowled.

"Aye, Miss," he nodded gruffly. "She's selling for three hundred thousand Galleons, but she's worth closer to five hundred thousand."

Hermione's eyes widened a little at the number.

"Can we arrange a viewing, Mr Cobblestone?" she asked, lifting her eyes from the file to stare down the real estate agent.

"I… 'course we can, Miss," Cobblestone said. "But… erm… you might want to arrange it for another day. Maybe dress a little less fancy, you know?"

Hermione looked down at her clothing, which she didn't consider to be all that fancy. Black business slacks and a long-sleeve button-down under her heavy winter cloak were hardly runway worthy.

"You anticipate trouble from the poltergeist?" Hermione guessed.

Cobblestone nodded.

"Wouldn't want your things to be ruined by owl pellets and the like, eh, Miss?"

Hermione chuckled.

"I feel certain that the clothes will survive the encounter, Mr Cobblestone. I'm ready to view the property now, if you are?" Hermione said, and she had the distinct sense that Reginald Cobblestone was afraid to return to the Dolohov estate.

She wondered why. Surely one little Russian woman wasn't so very scary, even if she did know a good hex or two? She could hardly actually use magic against them without giving away that she was a living, breathing witch, rather than a poltergeist. Hermione frowned at the man in charge of selling off the property for a long moment when he continued to hesitate.

"Are you sure, Miss?" he asked, frowning heavily.

"I'm certain I'd like to see the house today, Mr Cobblestone. Unless that's going to be a problem for you?" she ventured.

"It's no problem, Miss Granger," Cobblestone sighed. "Right, well, best crack on then, eh? Cindy!? Miss Granger and I are headed to view the Dolohov estate. Be a good lass and notify my other appointments of the setback."

Hermione suspected that was code for him having to notify Harry and the Auror department that someone would be viewing the house and it occurred to her that she might just happen to be the perfect bait to lure Antonin Dolohov into the Auror's trap to capture him. Hermione bit her lip, wondering if Dolohov was loitering somewhere nearby.

She hadn't seen him since the morning he'd come to her office and startled her so badly before asking if she'd ever consider relocating abroad. That had been three days ago, and if she was being honest, she'd begun paying more attention to her surroundings lest he be spotted hovering somewhere, watching her. It was an unusual feeling to know that so sinister a man was watching what very well might be her every move, and yet a part of her had begun to think of the entire experience as being somewhat…comforting.

She knew it was probably unhealthy, but due to Dolohov's obvious infatuation with her, and probably in large part due to how thorough and attentive a lover he'd turned out to be, Hermione found herself taking strange comfort to know that he might be lingering somewhere, unseen but watching her. Almost like some dark and avenging guardian angel waiting to swoop in should some ill befall her. Hermione wondered if she might be going mad that she'd begun thinking that anything associating with Antonin Dolohov wasn't considered dark or terrible.

Maybe she needed to speak to her psychiatrist about him and discuss this weird, almost fond feeling she was experiencing where the wretched Death Eater was concerned. Merlin, was this was Stockholm syndrome felt like? She wasn't cut off from associating with other people, and certainly wasn't in any way bound to Dolohov, but she was certainly increasingly aware of his presence in her life. That, combined with the hot dreams that left her sweaty and shuddering needily when she woke after them were beginning to warp her sense of self preservation.

Hermione reminded herself of the man's bad habit of grabbing her by the throat, in addition to his lack of remorse regarding the way he'd cursed her and all the terrible things he'd done in the service of Lord Voldemort. She had to be sure she kept a firm grip on who he was and what he'd done, rather than allowing her attention-starved body and intellectually starved mind to romanticize who he was and what he might bring to her life.

Not that it was easy. She'd never considered herself to be particularly well liked by her peers, in general, let alone by boys. Outside of marrying Ron, she'd had only a few sexual or romantic partners. There could be no denying that the knowledge that Dolohov cared for her – perhaps even loved her – had somewhat endeared her to the man. It was basic psychology, she knew. Finding out someone thought well of you, or fancied you, tended to soften your opinion of them in return because, surely, if they could see your value, they couldn't be all bad.

"Alright then, Miss Granger," Cobblestone said, interrupting her musings as he rose to his feet and rounded his feet. "We'll be apparating, if you don't mind?"

Hermione nodded her consent, offering the man her hand, expecting he would side-along apparate her to the property. He nodded his head once, before he gave a sharp twist and they both Disapparated with a resounding crack.


End file.
